


Le Scandale Boheme

by mycake



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Drug Use, Drugged Sherlock, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Lives, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), References to Past Underage Sex, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock's Violin, Shower Sex, Younger Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 102,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A desperate police officer puts all of his faith into an eighteen year old junkie who is only interested in getting his hands on the only thing that can ease his unstable mind. Both men become far more involved with one another than either had intended and must keep their home life a secret or risk losing everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was feeling on top of the world for the first time in months. He was extremely satisfied with himself; it was a highly successful night. He’d sweet talked his way into an elderly woman’s home, stolen her chain of pearls, pawned it for forty quid, scored a gram of quality blow, and was currently flying high in a back alley on Baker Street.

He was positively euphoric. It’d been far too long since he’d had a good hit.

 _Right of the key, uncut._ _12 lines worth._

He knew it wouldn’t last long. He’d need to clean house and take over his friend Raz’s entire inventory. He had a full ounce worth of the Colombian sugar just sitting there, waiting for him. He had convinced him to set it aside for him and give him a week to come up with the cash.

_1.4 grand by Tuesday. Charity scheme… a possibility. Goods for services, more likely._

Sherlock believed it was well worth it for the product. He had no intent of selling; he would store it away for the long winter.

He finally felt like he had a purpose in life. He’d been in such a rut lately; this was a huge boost for his mood. He passed by a patrol car, checked over the license plate, and whistled as he strolled past.

_Inspector Bradstreet, forty-two, top speed 7 mph. Morbidly obese. The undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own. The right sleeve of a porn addict. And the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy. Stupid, gullible old Bradstreet._

As he passed by the front of the patrol car, a strapping young man with dark hair stepped out. Sherlock’s heart dropped into his stomach.

_Not Bradstreet._

Sherlock’s brain whirled with ten thousand escape plans, which he rapidly narrowed down to seven, and then he mulled over his top two. He took in a deep breath, held it, and kept walking.

“Oi.” The officer shouted.

_Shit_

Sherlock spun on his heels and turned on his charm, “Officer! Good evening,” he said, smiling brightly. It hurt his cheeks to maintain a smile for too long. It was quickly fading. He struggled to remain sincere. The officer beckoned him over. Sherlock confidently strolled over to the police officer and stood beside the car, careful not to touch the vehicle.

“Evenin',” the officer said.

_Somerset._

“What brings you out here tonight?” the man asked looking Sherlock over. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock but built like a tank, with a strong set jaw, and a good set of legs.

“Oh you know… leisure,” Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively.

“Yeah…” the officer said with a long drawl. He smacked his lips and tongued the back of his cheek, “Out for a leisurely stroll are we?” he asked. Sherlock nodded. “At three in the morning?”

“Best time.”

“Oh really?”

“Rapists are all tucked in for the evening, murders haven’t yet woken up.”

“Just have to worry about the junkies, right?” the officer gave him a smile, showing off his brilliantly white teeth. “You know anything about a robbery that took place in these parts, oh… not seven hours ago?”

_A bit too straight forward Constable, you’ll never get a confession out of me that way. You’re very green… what are you doing with Bradstreet’s car?_

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I came by way of Southwark. Only just arrived.”

The officer hummed to himself.

_He isn’t buying it._

Sherlock looked at his surroundings.

“Little old lady, lives right over there,” the man said pointing across the street to 221-B. Sherlock had to actively control his autonomic response. He’d inadvertently returned to the scene of the crime. His mouth went dry; he had to refrain from gulping. “Says a young man… bout six foot, real thin, with dark curly hair, came round with a real sob story. Says he’d been mugged, was all in tears. While she’s off, fixin him a cuppa, he turns round and roots through her jewelry. Says he nicked her gran’s chain of pearls.”

“That’s awful!” Sherlock said with disgust.

_Refute everything and you’re done for. Express your sincerest concern along with an apology and say that there is nothing you can do for him._

“I really wish I could help you officer,” Sherlock gave him a reassuring look of sympathy. “I can keep my eyes out for the character if you’d like."

“That’s not all.”

“Oh?” Sherlock said with a slight inflection.

_Oh shit._

“Money shop owner, down the way, admitted to working out a pawn loan for the pearls. He handed em over. Pearls are back with their rightful owner.”

“I am _so_ pleased that story had a happy ending,” Sherlock said as he turned to leave.

“Oh no, gets better. You’ll like this next part,” The officer said, placing a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock rolled his eyes before he turned to face the man once more. “See most kids his age would have just gone and sold the jewelry, police would have been called, and that’s that. This boy, he’s real clever.

_Hm, I’m flattered, go on._

“Left the owner with a bullshit address, phone-number, even had references! The name ‘Richard Brook’ ring a bell?” the officer asked. Sherlock shook his head, “Yeah, I thought not,” the officer let out a sigh and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He handed it to Sherlock. It was a photocopy of the false ID he had used to secure the loan, “None of your chums seemed to know a Richard Brook either.”

_Chums? I don’t have chums._

“Though, they did seem to know a _Sherlock Holmes_ that fit the description.”

“Well officer, it was nice speaking with you, but I must be off,” Sherlock turned quickly and burst into a sprint.

The Constable was fast on his heels and Sherlock suddenly felt terribly out of shape.

_I should be running at Mach 5 with this much coke in my system!_

He turned down Melcombe Street, ducked into a narrow side street, scrambled up a brick fence, and narrowly slid through the gap between the sections of barbed wire. He took a short breather and pressed his back against the wall.

He heard the officer’s heavy footfall on the pavement. He covered his mouth to silence the sounds of his heavy breathing. He heard the slide of boots on the brick wall. Sherlock made a quick dash for the fire escape. He leaped and was just barely able to clutch on to the ladder.

He had started shimmying up the ladder when the officer bounded over the fence. Sherlock lost his grip and fell to the ground and landed heavily on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

The officer waltzed over to Sherlock casually and looked down upon him, disapprovingly. Sherlock looked up at him, still not willing to admit defeat.

“You know I’m going to have to take you in, right?” He motioned for Sherlock to roll over. Sherlock obliged and rolled over on to his stomach. He placed his hands behind his back and allowed the Constable to cuff him.

He gritted his teeth as he thought.

“What’s the charge?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly. The officer was obviously taken aback, he laughed nervously.

“Um… evading arrest? Burglary? Public intoxication?”

“For one, you were not actively arresting me, you were questioning me; I was free to leave whenever I pleased. And burglary? Please. You hardly have insurmountable evidence for your accusations. My ID clearly states that my name is Sherlock Holmes. I will attest that I am not this Richard Brook person you are looking for and you won’t find this man’s identification on my person. As for public intoxication, hardly worth writing up the report, don’t you agree, Constable? That is what you were doing in the parked patrol car? Working on your reports? Or were you in the middle of a good nap and I happened to wake you?”

“You have the right to remain silent-“

“Oh but I surely won’t use it,” Sherlock said with a smile. “Certainly they wouldn’t have your badge for this, but sleeping on the job, that’s a punishable offence, don’t you believe-“

“Listen kid. I’ve been up for the past twenty-two hours. It’s almost an hour past my shift-“

“All the more reason to let me go,” Sherlock all but begged. The officer helped him on to his feet; he lifted the latch on the gate and led him through. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Lestrade,” he mumbled. He gently led Sherlock by his shoulders back to the patrol car.

“Really, is all this necessary?” Sherlock asked trying to be amiable. “An hour past your shift, won’t your grandmother be worried? The poor old woman will think you’ve been shot or worse!”

Lestrade broke stride a moment, shook his head, and kept walking.

“Nah, don’t think it’ll worry her much.”

“Why?”

“She’s dead.”

_Damn it. Of course. He inherited her place after her passing, mustn’t have died long ago. Perhaps the wound is still fresh._

“I’m sad to hear.”

“Don’t be.”

_They didn’t get along. He obviously lived with the woman quite some time before her passing. His inheritance was a fluke. Perhaps she didn’t have a living will. She mistreated him. Shows all the classical signs of a broken household._

They reached the car and Lestrade walked Sherlock up to the hood until his knees pressed against the grill. Lestrade let go, opened the driver side door, and flipped on the headlights.

“Right then,” Lestrade said stretching on the examination gloves. “Any weapons?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No,” he said with an aggravated sigh. He was almost certain he wouldn’t find the gram on him. He was starting to really miss Bradstreet as Lestrade started patting him down.

_Stupid, fat, old Bradstreet. He’d never have given chase. Public intoxication charges. How I hate new Constables. Always wanting to go by the book._

Lestrade checked the pockets of his zip-up hoodie. He pulled down the zip and slid the jacket off of Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms until it hung loosely around Sherlock’s cuffed wrists.

“Reversible," the officer stated. “That’s real clever.”

Sherlock fought to hold back a smug grin. He thought it was quite clever himself. It allowed for a quick costume change from bold black stripes on one side, to solid red on the other.

Lestrade slid his hands down Sherlock’s chest and checked the breast pocket on his shirt. He slid the hoodie back up and onto Sherlock’s shoulders. He grabbed and squeezed along the legs of Sherlock’s jeans. He motioned for Sherlock to remove his shoes.

_My, he’s thorough._

Sherlock toed off his shoes and stood in his socks while Lestrade peeled back the inserts and checked them over. He helped Sherlock back into his shoes and stood up. Sherlock let out a sigh. He was almost out of the woods. Just a quick pat down of his privates and he’d be done.

Male cops always skirted around these regions, uncomfortable to grope another man’s naughty bits, worried they might be charged with assault if they grabbed them in the wrong place. Sherlock used this to his advantage. He hadn’t been caught yet and he wasn’t planning on it.

He lifted at the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt, smoothed out the area near his crotch. Ran the back of his hand up the front of his jeans, then stopped, he groped and Sherlock let out a small gasp.

“God’s sake Constable,” he said trying to pull away, “At least buy me dinner first.”

“You concealing anything in your pants?”

“No,” Sherlock lied, “Well… my dick,” he said with a shrug. A silence fell on them.

_He’s struggling to remember the proper procedure. Please… please don’t call. He hasn’t made a call in yet. I still have a chance if I can keep him away from the receiver._

“Erm… Mr. Holmes, I believe I have probable cause to check your pants.”

_What is this? A gay pornography?_

“Spread,” Lestrade said tapping on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh. If he didn’t let him search his pants he’d have to take him in and they’d search him at the station. If there wasn’t anything on him he could perhaps press charges against the officer for unwarranted molestation, unfortunately he had concealed in a small pocket in his pants a gram of cocaine.

There was still a small chance he wouldn’t find it. Lestrade undid Sherlock’s button and zip and slid his jeans down slightly. His hand went directly to the pocket. He withdrew the small silk sachet and Sherlock started cursing him in his head. He placed the bag on the hood of the car and did up Sherlock’s jeans.

_How in the hell did he feel that through denim?_

“I must say. You’re a real clever one,” Lestrade laughed looking at the small bag of cocaine, “Most blokes put their blow in little plastic baggies. Silk doesn’t make that crinkly sound when you get a pat down. Clever,” he let out a chuckle, “All right, princess, your chariot awaits,” he placed the coke in an evidence bag, removed his gloves, and led Sherlock to the back seat.

“Do we really have to go through all of this? It’s under a gram! Think of the paper work!” Sherlock pleaded as Lestrade opened the door for him. He pushed his head down and nudged him into the vehicle, “Please, I don’t need this on my record,” Sherlock begged as Lestrade slammed the door shut. Sherlock held back from banging his head against the back of the seat. He calmed himself with several deep breaths.

_So he was asleep while on the clock, not enough to get him in serious trouble. He followed the proper pat-down procedure. He didn’t use unnecessary force in his seizure. I need something! Perhaps not black-mail. A bribe. Yes bribes work. They worked on Bradstreet. Everyone has a weak spot._

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think of what would tempt the young officer.

_What would tempt a man in his late twenties, one without a steady girlfriend, and a high stress home-life?_

Lestrade opened the driver side door and stepped in.

_He hasn’t called me in yet. I still have a chance!_

Lestrade turned on the ignition and the car roared to life.

“I’ll suck you off!” Sherlock shouted. The engine cut out. Lestrade turned around in his seat.

“What?”

“Here,” Sherlock said frantically, “In the back seat. Please, if you'll just let me go,” he worked up some misty eyes and pouted his lower lip, “I’m desperate.”

Lestrade turned around. Started up the patrol car once more and peeled out. Sherlock groaned and hit his forehead against the back of the seat.

“You could use this you know. Get your head on straight. Clean up your act,” Lestrade said, “You’re a real smart kid.”

Sherlock started to sniffle.

“Are you crying?” Lestrade asked in disbelief.

“No… my nose is bleeding,” drops of blood steadily dripped out of Sherlock’s nose and on to his trainers.

“Oh shit, you serious?” Lestrade asked turning around, the car jerked, “All right, all right, hold on,” he pulled over, “Don’t get any on the seats!” he shouted, grabbing the first aid kit from under the passenger seat. He hopped out of the car.

_Next time, injection._

Sherlock generally hated snorting cocaine, but he was unable to get his hands on any clean needles and was desperate for a hit. The stuff he got from Raz was amazing, it went down smooth, sending chills down his spine; he didn’t even mind having to snort it. Now the Constable had it in his possession and he needed it back. If only he could worm his way out of this situation.

Lestrade slid into the back seat and opened the first aid kit. He went to hold a cotton ball up to Sherlock’s nose and stopped. Sherlock looked at him.

“You clean?” Lestrade asked in concern. He looked away and put the cotton ball down a moment while he pulled on latex gloves.

“What would make you think I wasn’t?” Sherlock asked as Lestrade started trying to stop up his nose with a cotton ball.

“Track marks up your arms,” Lestrade said as he mopped up the blood that had dripped on to Sherlock’s chin. “That and you offered to blow me in the back seat,” Lestrade added, “You’re kind of at risk.”

“I don’t share needles,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You got any family?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock shook his head, “A residence?”

Sherlock shook his head once more. Lestrade let out a sigh.

“Wait… why?” Sherlock asked turning towards him.

“Was thinking of letting you go,” he shrugged, “But since you have no place _to_ go.”

“Oh, I do. Of course I do,” Sherlock stammered. Lestrade looked at him expectantly.

_Now who will put up with me for the night? Someone who doesn’t have a record… I’d be leading the police right to them._

“Out near Barts!” he blurted out.

_Molly Hooper. Haven’t spoken with her in years… It’s worth a shot._

Sherlock’s hands started to shake. “My friend _,_ Molly, she has accommodations near the hospital.”

“Is that true?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded eagerly, “When’s the last time you had a bite to eat?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

_What is he getting at?_

“Wednesday,” Sherlock said leaning back.

“This last Wednesday?” Lestrade asked in concern.

“I think,” honestly Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he ate. The cocaine did a good job of suppressing his hunger.

“I know a place that’s open,” Lestrade said with a sigh, “Could use a coffee myself.”

Sherlock looked at him absolutely baffled.

When they reached the diner, Lestrade undid Sherlock’s cuffs and escorted him into the establishment. Sherlock walked in, nervously scratching at his arm. The fluorescent light seemed to make his pale translucent skin glow. They slid into a booth and Lestrade handed him a menu.

_He’s a regular._

The waitress came by and Lestrade ordered two coffees.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Sherlock mumbled when the waitress brought over their cups.

“S’fine, I do,” Lestrade started to drink his first cup. “Order whatever, it’s on me.”

Sherlock didn’t bother glancing at the menu.

“Not hungry,” he said.

“Three eggs, over medium, two pieces of toast, bacon, sausage, and a side of potatoes,” Lestrade rattled off the list and the waitress nodded.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock repeated.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re coming down off a high.”

Sherlock itched at the back of his knuckles. Lestrade was already half-way done with his cup of coffee.

“Caffeine’s a drug too,” Sherlock said childishly. Lestrade let out a snort.

“Oh yeah?” he said as he finished off his cup, “Don’t see me sucking some bloke’s dick in a back alley for a shot of espresso, do ya?”

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn’t expecting a dinner date with a police officer.

_If I could just suffer through this a little longer, I’ll be off scot-free. Then I can get on with that charity scheme. No more stealing from little old ladies. 1.4 grand and I’ll be set for the rest of winter._

“Tell me about yourself,” Lestrade said.

“Why?” Sherlock snapped. He needed to keep himself in check. He was starting to become irritable and slightly paranoid.

“Cos,” Lestrade shrugged, “I really do hope I never see you again, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Might as well get to know my regulars.”

“New to the borough?” Sherlock asked and Lestrade nodded, “Partner fell through?”

Lestrade looked at him strange.

“You’re very observant,” he remarked

“Where’s Bradstreet?” Sherlock asked.

“On sick leave.”

“Heart?”

“Yeah… triple bypass.”

“Send him my best wishes,” Sherlock said grabbing the other cup of coffee. He tore open six packets of sugar and poured them in. He swirled it around and gave it a sip, “I was becoming rather fond of the Inspector,” Sherlock admitted.

“He never gave chase, eh?”

Sherlock looked out the window and gave a sigh.

“So what put you out on the streets?” Lestrade asked.

“I’m flattered that you’re interested in me, but really, must we resort to small talk?”

“Could take a ride down to the station…”

“Drugs. Drugs are what put me on the streets. Happy?”

“Selling?”

“Heavens no,” Sherlock scoffed, “I’m not _stupid._ ”

“There’s good money in it.”

“Yes and a great deal of risk. And for what? To be caught? To have my massive fortune stripped from me? I have yet to have a gun held to my head and I’m not looking to change that.”

“Yeah but doing drugs-“

“Is completely safe. If you know the right people, the proper dosage, the-“

“There’s no way to control everything.”

“I assume a risk, but it is entirely manageable. I’m as safe as I want to be.”

“Sleeping on the streets?”

“The homeless network looks after me,” Sherlock said defiantly, “And I don’t sleep on the _streets.”_

“Right, you’re supposedly shacking up with some bird.”

“Supposedly?”

_He’s calling my bluff. How dare he?_

Lestrade shook his head and smiled, “I know a thing or two.”

“About?”

“Not having a proper home. Doing what you need to get by,” Lestrade looked into his empty cup, “Drugs though… never got into that shit,” Lestrade looked up at him, “It is shit, you know? Boy, clever as you-“

“You’re trying to convert me?”

“Would make my job easier.”

“Constables…” Sherlock mumbled.

_Self-righteous bastards._

“How old are you anyway?” Lestrade asked as the waitress made her way over with the bounty of food. She topped off Lestrade’s cup of coffee and Sherlock looked down at the food in disgust.

“Eighteen,” Sherlock said poking at a rubbery piece of sausage, “You said you’ve lived on the streets?”

“Nah, but I was homeless once,” Lestrade said and Sherlock looked at him, “Ran away from home when I was real young.”

“And what? Joined the circus?”

“Yeah… actually,” Lestrade laughed. Sherlock was slightly taken aback.

“Absent father?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade nodded, “Working mother?”

He nodded once more

“How’d you know about my gran by the way?”

“Rose water, cellophane, and shoe polish,” Sherlock said rapidly.

“Shoe polish?”

“Coloured shoe polish, smells strongly of turpentine. It is unlikely a young woman would take the time to polish her shoes; she’d likely throw them out and buy another pair if they became too worn. Your grandmother was tight with her finances, never wasted a penny, made her own rose water even. She wasn’t a pleasant woman, evident from your dismissal of my condolences. She’s passed away, quite recently too, likely complications from diabetes, had a bit of a sweet tooth, she was quite fond of cellophane wrapped hard-candies. She left you her abode, but not intentionally. She died without a will, am I right?”

Lestrade looked at him, quite flabbergasted.

“Some of your relations came out of the woodworks after her death and are looking to seize her property, your property, you were the one that put up with her, were the closest to her in her final days. They want to sell it from underneath you, split the inheritance evenly. You aren’t allowed to move a speck of dust in that place without the wrath of your relatives. You’re a stranger in your own home. You have even taken to sleeping on the sofa. No wonder you can’t sleep at night.”

Lestrade looked at him, mouth agape. Sherlock looked quite pleased. He often got rather chatty when he was coming off a high. He spoke a mile a minute and after he spilled out all his information he felt a great sense of relief that it was out in the open.

Lestrade gulped, “Shame,” he said pursing his lips.

“What is?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Pissing away such talent,” he finished off another cup of coffee, “What’s a kid like you doing rolling round in the gutters anyhow?”

“Ran away, just like you.”

“Look, I’m not proud of what I did,” Lestrade clenched his teeth, “It’s a waste… a bloody waste.”

_He’s angry. Why?_

“So… I’m supposed to just let you go? So you can keep getting high? Fuck up your life? Get that gun held to your head?” Lestrade asked crossly.

“You’re not reconsidering taking me in, are you?” Sherlock asked nervously.

“No,” Lestrade sighed, “Shit,” He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock started nibbling on a piece of toast, trying to appease the volatile man. Lestrade scrubbed his face with his calloused palms. He was obviously exhausted. Sherlock pushed his cup of coffee over to him. Lestrade looked at it and laughed, “No, thanks. Don’t take mine with sugar.”

Lestrade reached into his pocket, grabbed a pen, and scribbled something on the back of a napkin. He handed it to Sherlock. “You need anything, call me,” he reached into his pocket once more, withdrew his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to Sherlock, “Pay the lady, rest is for you. Keep your nose clean,” he slid out of the booth and made a quick exit.  

Sherlock looked at the twenty.

_Half a gram._

He let out a heavy sigh and looked at the food in front of him. His lip twitched into a snarl.

_Keep the police on my side. Pay for the meal, forgo the blow._

His mind rattled.

_Can still get a quarter… keep me satisfied, get me through the day. Could also exchange quality for quantity. No, no._

Having finished half a piece of toast and taken a bite of bacon, Sherlock was satiated. He walked up to the front, paid for his meal, left a small tip and was left with fifteen pounds.

_Since when did a plate of bacon and eggs set someone back five quid?_

Lestrade was a fool if he thought Sherlock wouldn’t take the change and use it to restock. It was quite generous of him. It made Sherlock slightly nervous.

_People don’t do ‘nice’ things. They always expect something in return. Should have left me with a tenner. Idiot._

Sherlock stepped outside and was met with a rush of cold air. He drew his arms in close. He itemized his to-do list as he walked back to Baker Street.

_Haggle with Raz. Fifteen will get me a quarter easy, bastard knows I like his supply, he’ll up the price. Could talk him down to ten for a quarter, maybe an eighth for five? Fifteen would bring me three eighths._

Sherlock grunted at the thought.

_Fucker can’t do ‘eighths’. A quarter it is then…_

Sherlock let out a growl. He hated the middle-man. He paid a high premium for stupidity. The idiot had stumbled on something though and Sherlock wasn’t about to let him sell it to anyone else.

He was wary when he first saw it and was put off by its yellow-grey colour. It had a shiny look to it and had fish scale-like flakes. He’d never seen anything like it. The first hit numbed him all the way down. He was in shock. The onset was quicker than usual and lasted a lot longer than he expected. It gave him chills just thinking about it.

He was convinced he wasn’t an addict and could quit anytime he pleased. He just didn’t want to quit. He had nothing better to do. Cocaine occupied his mind; rid him of the dull aching feeling of rot that had plagued him since childhood. He didn’t need to eat or sleep when he was high, his mind was sharp, and his senses were heightened.

He preferred intravenous though. He resolved to get his hands on some clean needles. He thought of how amazing the new stuff would be with direct delivery, rapid onset. His mouth was starting to water as he walked down the streets at four AM. He wiped the drool from the corners of his lips.

He was starting to get increasingly irritated that Lestrade took away his coke. He could have been having another line. Instead he was walking in the fierce cold with only a thin jacket.

Lestrade was going to be a problem, if he wasn’t already. Bradstreet overlooked Sherlock’s antics. Sherlock kept it under a gram and didn’t disturb the peace much. He kept his thievery under a hundred pounds, so bringing him in was more trouble than it was worth. Lestrade was trying to make a name for himself. He actively wanted to help Sherlock get off the streets and off the needle for reasons that remained unclear to Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t change boroughs any more than Lestrade could. They were going to have to get along. That meant Sherlock needed to be clever in how he got his 1.4 grand. He would try the charity scam.

_After school program. Fundraiser for the local school’s cricket team. Church? Yes, restoration for St. Patrick’s. Hm, might limit my audience. Could decrease the number of personal cheques though._

The bane of any scammer’s existence were personal cheques. Sherlock knew a few ways around getting them cashed but he much preferred straight cash. Less hassle, no risk. He considered his dress options.

_Have to look like an altar boy without the vestments. Suit and tie… could be mistaken as Mormon. Scrap the tie. I look Catholic enough. Could pass as fifteen. Raise the voice; pass off my erratic behavior as nerves._

Sherlock found himself at Raz’s door. He buzzed the intercom. Waited. Buzzed once more. The box made a crackling sound and the door unlocked. He entered the stairwell that was coated in graffiti. A soiled mattress lay in the middle of the hall. He stepped over it and walked up to the first floor. He started banging on Raz’s door.

_Sleep. Sleep is so annoying! He can’t keep regular business hours! He’s a drug dealer for Christ’s sake! And a sad excuse for one at that._

A tired and annoyed skin-head opened the door.

“What? Back for more?” Raz asked. Sherlock nodded, “You can’t be serious!” he shouted. “Like fucking Scarface! What the fuck man?”

“Keep it down,” Sherlock hushed as he slid into his flat. Sherlock looked directly at the bright yellow swastika on his wall, “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Sherlock remarked, looking over at the broken window patched with duct tape.

“Fuck,” Raz groaned. He flopped down on the mattress in the middle of the room, “How much?”

“Half gram,” he said pulling out the fiver and tenner. Raz snorted.

“You serious?”

Sherlock gave him a grin.

“Twenty-five gets you a half,” Raz said firmly. Sherlock offered up the cash once more, “That’s fifteen wanker.”  

“Yes and I’m taking the full ounce off your hands. Consider it an advance.”

“I'd give you half a gram of-“

“No, no. I want the new stuff.”

“Piss off,” Raz scowled.

“I said I’d take the ounce off your hands. 1.4 grand?” Sherlock tempted.

“Yeah well, got plenty of guys I could sell it to.”

“I venture, not many would be willing to pay fifty quid a gram.”

“I’m not sellin’ it on the side, promise.”

“Good,” Sherlock looked at him stoically, “Half a gram, s’il vous plait.”

“Seriously, fuck off. I’m not giving it away.”

“A quarter then.”

“Deal.”

“For ten.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Raz spat.

“A quarter of forty is ten.”

“That’s the old rate,” he whined.

“Yes and I’m your best client.”

“No you ain’t,” Raz said standing up, “You come round, four in the fucking morning, trying to rob me blind!”

“Offering ten pounds for a quarter of a gram is hardly robbing you blind!” Sherlock laughed, “Now bring it here,” Sherlock’s face turned dead serious. Raz glared at him, walked over to his open safe, and pulled out a pre-proportioned packet. He threw it at Sherlock, “You lying sack of shit,” Sherlock growled.

“What?”

“You said you weren’t selling it on the side!”

“Wasn’t,” Raz said frowning, he scratched his arm, “Sampler.”

“Oh, this is a sample?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, “How do you expect to keep in business, giving away product?”

“Just shut it and give us the tenner.”

“No,” Sherlock said stuffing the packet in his pocket.

“What?” Raz asked in shock.

“It’s a sample, why should I pay for it?”

Raz groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“I’ll tell you what I will pay for. A suit.”

“Suit?” Raz asked.

“Trousers, button-down shirt, perhaps a blazer. Surely you know where I could get one cheap.”

“Upstairs,” Raz mumbled, “Portly… Porky… believe his name is. Real fat guy. He’s got that kind of shit,” Raz shook his head. “Better pull through with the money. I really need to be moving this inventory.”

“I know how much pride you take in your little business. Rest assured you’ll get your money,” Sherlock looked at the open safe. He licked his lips as he thought.

“Don’t even think about it,” Raz warned, catching his hungry gaze.

“Catch you later, Raz,” Sherlock said with a smile as he left the flat in a sweep. He ran up the stairs with a new found bounce in his step. He didn’t need to knock on the door of the portly gentleman’s flat because there wasn’t a door attached to the hinges. Sherlock wondered for a moment where it disappeared to and if there was any money in selling doors.

_I could be a door to door, door salesman._

A massive man lay wide awake in a reclining chair. His eyes were fixed on the telly screen, watching an infomercial. Sherlock knocked on the door jam. The man’s head lazily lolled over in Sherlock’s direction.

“I heard you were the man to see about getting a suit.”

He looked Sherlock over. Sherlock pulled the money out of his pocket. The man let out a sigh, sat up, and put down the leg rest. He stretched as he stood and toddled, unhurriedly to the bedroom. Sherlock waited, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again. He placed his hands behind his back and started to whistle a minuet.

The man returned with a purple button down shirt and a pair of black trousers. He handed them off to Sherlock who inspected them thoroughly.

“My good man, you really know your wares!” he was impressed with the quality. Who needed shopping centres anymore, when there were crack houses like this? Sherlock checked the tag on the shirt and clamped his mouth shut.

_Dolce and Gabbana. Easily worth a hundred, two hundred pounds. Worse comes to worse, I can sell the shirt._

Sherlock smiled brightly. Porky gave him a toothless grin.

“Heroin?” Sherlock asked. Porky made a motion towards the kitchen, “No, no, my good man! I meant you! You have that look about you,” Sherlock rubbed his lips together, “You wouldn’t happen to have any clean needles on you? Would you?” he was getting greedy and he knew it. He should have just taken the shirt and run.

Sherlock handed him the money and gave him his most genuine fake smile. Porky pocketed the money and turned to walk to the kitchen once more. He pulled out a box of disposable needles. Sherlock let out a loud, “Oh,” of pleasure, “God bless you!” Porky pulled out a handful of syringes and handed them to Sherlock. “Whoa, whoa,” he laughed, “Now, now. Two or three would suffice. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you,” Sherlock smirked.

Porky silently insisted he take ten and Sherlock bid him farewell. He was itching to get some cocaine in his vessels. Even with the small hiccup with the police officer, the day had been bright and hopeful. He ran down the stairs, too excited to control his feet. He ran into Raz’s flat and grabbed a spoon and a cup of water. Raz growled at him, half asleep.

Sherlock left the flat and hurried down the stairs. He burst out the front door and into the dim light of a flickering street lamp. He sucked in a deep breath of air and couldn’t help but smile.

His cheeks were starting to burn from all the merriment. He slid into a back alley and gingerly placed his new clothes over a chain-link fence. He placed the cup and spoon down on the ground and stripped off his sweatshirt, undershirt, jeans, and trainers.

_Oh shit, the shoes._

He looked at his trainers. They would have to do. His finances were completely drained and it would be a waste of time to nick a pair of decent loafers.

He slid on the trousers.

_A bit loose in the legs._

He shrugged and started putting on the shirt. He instantly fell in love with it. It fit like a glove and flattered his slim figure. He buttoned the final button and ran his hands down the front of the smooth cotton. He reached into the pocket of his jeans for his quarter gram of blow.

He unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve, rolled it up, and flexed his hand several times. His veins stuck out clearly. He’d never actually prepared his own intravenous solution, but he’d seen Raz do it enough times to be well versed in the procedure. He spread out his sweatshirt like a picnic blanket and had a seat. He spooned up some water and balanced the spoon on the lip of the cup.

He opened the bag and took out a small pinch. He sprinkled it over the spoon and watched as it dissolved in the water; only a small amount crashed out of solution and settled to the bottom. He grabbed a synringe, removed the cap, and stirred the solution with the needle. He started licking his lips in anticipation. He drew up the liquid, as much as the tiny syringe would hold.

He flexed his forearm several times and took a deep breath. He pressed the needle against his skin and gently slid it in. A small drop of blood spilled out as he started pressing down the plunger. He felt an immediate rush, unlike anything he’d felt before.

His ears rang out like he was right under a helicopter. His whole body went numb as he sank into the ground. It felt like he was being pricked all over with tiny pins and needles. He was beyond euphoric. Then it felt like he was having a million orgasms, all at once. It was all too much.

He started to sweat profusely. He had lost all control of his limbs. He had just enough sense left in him to loll his head to one side before he started to vomit. His breathing became sporadic and he started to flop like a fish out of water.

His throat felt numb. He was in a panic and delirious. He could hear his brother’s voice. His mother’s screaming. He was no longer swimming in euphoria, he was drowning in despair.

He wretched and felt Mozart’s Requiem begin to play in the back of his mind.

_No, no._

He writhed and squirmed on the black concrete. The convulsions soon took over and Sherlock completely lost consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock jerked awake. Bright lights stung his eyes, he started seeing spots. He was surrounded by blue padding. He felt trapped in the mask that surrounded his mouth and nose, it burned the surrounding skin. He jerked his arms to find they were tethered to the bed.

Pain shot through him in intense bursts. He was surrounded in ice packs but he was sweating profusely. He started throwing his head side to side in a frail attempt to dislodge the mask. He felt a hand on each of his shoulders. He began to shout, his pleas were muffled by the ventilator. He started to scream in agony.

A nurse removed his mask and Sherlock immediately started to shout, “Benzos! I need benzos!” as he writhed in agony. He started crying uncontrollably. Then he felt a burning in his arm. Followed by a smooth calm. It felt like he was in a café, surrounded by jazz musicians. He let out a content sigh.

It was better than he had remembered. He thought to himself.

_I should overdose more often._

He flopped back on to the bed and grinned smugly. He was well sedated by the time the doctor came in. He said some things and Sherlock caught absolutely nothing.

_All right that’s lovely, leave your card at the door, I’ll call you. No, no, my people will call your people. We’ll do lunch. I know a lovely place. Soho of all places. Spanish! Can you believe it? Well everyone has their fares._

Sherlock’s eyes soon became heavy. He nodded along with the doctor’s speech. This was nice, he liked this, maybe he’d switch to benzodiazepines. It was lovely.  He hadn’t a care in the world.

How much had they given him? Oh well, overdose from benzos was rarely lethal. He heard birds. That was nice. What were song birds doing in a hospital? He wondered. He smiled drunkenly.

“I’m pretty,” he slurred. The doctor looked at him funny. The doctor was not pretty, no, he had male androgenic alopecia, otherwise known as male pattern baldness. This was not pretty on a man!

Sherlock’s vision was starting to come back to him, though he was still quite near-sighted.

_Liver spots: Lentigo senilis. Oh and doesn’t he just reek of old age? What is that smell anyhow? As flesh ages does it give off a scent? Is he literally decomposing before me? My God, is this a lecture? How long is he going to go on for?_

The doctor left the room after his long speech. Sherlock was certain there had been some important instructions he was supposed to follow. He raised his hand to call him back but he’d already left. Possibly an hour ago, oh dear.

_Oh well._

Sherlock nestled in for a good day’s sleep. He woke up when a nurse started checking his vitals. The ventilator had been removed. He held up his IV hoping the nurse would get the hint, he didn’t. Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh.

“Maintenance dose,” Sherlock demanded.

“Doctor hasn’t ordered-“

“Yes, yes. Go-“ Sherlock waved his hand dismissing the young man, “Tell him, in order for me to maintain this therapeutic effect I must be administered a hundred milligrams every four hours.”

“Twenty-five, every six, as needed,” the man corrected.

“Could I possibly… exchange nurses?” Sherlock said making a motion with his hands for a swap. He frowned slightly.

_I’m coming down… or up._

“But my withdrawal,” Sherlock pouted. He pointedly stuck out his bottom lip to be extra pathetic.

“Max is three hundred milligrams in a twenty-four hour period. I’m sorry Mr. Holmes. You’ll get your next dose in two hours.”

“I’ll dip down below the threshold! You’ll have to load me up again!”

“Don’t have to do nothing-”

“Anything,” Sherlock corrected. The nurse removed his pressure cuff and left, “No! No!” he shouted after him. His ticket to paradise walked right out the door.

He wanted his withdrawal to be as comfortable as possible. They’d only keep him until he stabilized, but by then he’d be in the nasty stages of withdrawal. Pain, discomfort, and intense cravings awaited him.

Coming off cocaine was a synch but he’d dug himself into a hole by pleading for benzos. It didn’t matter how slowly they weaned him off, he knew he was in for a world of hurt.

He’d stayed away from heroin and morphine based solely on the withdrawal. He knew withdrawal was inevitable. He’d been through it before.

He started to become agitated with the indolence of the hospital’s staff after he had waited ten minutes and still hadn’t received his second dose. He’d completely forgotten about his earlier conversation with the nurse, where he had informed him he would not be receiving another dose for another hour and fifty minutes.

Sherlock popped out of bed, undid his IV, and steadied himself on his feet. He took one step forward and fell to the floor.

_Well that was successful._

He pressed his finger tips to his forehead and felt a small knot forming. He rolled his eyes.

_Great, just what I need, brain damage._

He rested his elbow on the ground and placed his chin his hand. He tapped his fingers on the ground.

_Any day now._

A barrage of hospital staff came rushing in. “About time,” he mumbled. Two men lifted him up off the floor and into his bed. “Ah yes, I wanted to speak with my doctor about my sedation. You see. I’m positively delirious. Would you mind fetching him for me? Ta,” his arms and legs were strapped down once more, “Is all of this really necessary?” he complained, “Really, all I was trying to-“

“We know what you were trying to do Mr. Holmes. Now please, no more bothering the staff for benzos, we’re switching you on to-“

“No, no,” Sherlock pleaded. “You’ll send me into withdrawal. You see I’m highly sensitive to it. I may even become suicidal.”

“You’re strapped down to a gurney.”

_Shit, fuck, damn, bugger, bugger, bugger. She’s right, the bitch. Ooh how I could just bite her._

Sherlock began to pout.

“You only have to stay with us until you’re stabilized.”

“Look at me, I’m fine! You can send me home, as is; then I won’t be a bother to anyone.”

_Think I left my coke in the street. Wonder if my clothes are still there. My shirt!_

Sherlock clutched on to his chest and felt his hospital gown. “My shirt!” he shouted out loud.

“All your belongings are safe and stored away.”

He resisted the urge to shout ‘ _my cocaine!’_ He was suddenly met with derealisation. None of this was real! He was obviously dead from overdose in a back alley. Silly angel nurses, what did they know?

God was he loopy. He’d never had such an adverse reaction before.

“I’m hungry,” he stated. The nurse looked at him surprised.

“Oh. I’ll see if the doctor has-“

“Don’t you just hate being the doctor’s bitch?” Sherlock asked crossing his arms, “Big strong woman like you, you could take him on.”

“Listen, Sherlock, may I call you Sherlock?”

“Call me Sherly,” Sherlock teased.

“I’ll go see if the doctor will approve of you having something to eat. I’ll see to it they make you something nice. Kay?”

“Kay.”

“Get some rest now,” she said, tucking him in.

“MmK mummy,” Sherlock obeyed and fell into a deep sleep. He heard a flash-bang and his eyes shot open. It felt like the whole room was moving. He started to panic. His mouth tasted of metal and bile. He came to a shocking realization.

_Speedball._

“That bastard!” Sherlock shouted. He clutched on to the sides of the bed. His limbs became stiff, he was sweating once more. He felt someone touch his shoulder and it felt like he’d been stabbed with a knife, “I’ve been drugged!” Sherlock shouted, balling the bed-sheets into his fists. He was outraged.

He clenched his teeth, “That bastard Raz! He laced it with heroin! No wonder it crashed out of solution. I should have cooked it first. God damn it!” he screamed. The nurse looked at him bewildered, “New nurse. Pregnant, seven months, not her husband’s. Married a short while, three years by the look of… my I’m saying this out loud aren’t I? I can’t stop… my God… what if this is permanent?” Sherlock looked away from the nurses eyes and tried to stop his rambling mouth, “My God, I’ve lost all self control. She’s bloated like a pig. Edema. Possible gestational diabetes,” he said staring off into space. “You really should get that checked out,” he turned to her, “And give the real father my best wishes,” Sherlock started to feel his heart racing, “Name it Sherlock, would you? Mycroft if it’s a girl. I know it’s a bit unconventional but I really would appreciate it. I’m going to die soon and I don’t want to leave this world without passing on my name. It is a good name, don’t you think? Sherlock? I am so sorry, I must go now, my people need me,” Sherlock threw his head back against the pillow. He started humming God Save the Queen and finally signed off.

Sherlock slept through the rest of his immediate withdrawal, excreting the toxins through his sweat, he kicked and squirmed and had terrible delusional nightmares. He woke up with a dry mouth and his first coherent thought was: _water._

He fell in and out of sleep for hours. He started to wake up when nurses came in to check on him. He’d watch them through narrow slits in his eyes, ever wary of their presence. His personality was starting to come back to him. His thoughts cleared.

He wanted to go home. His mummy would be in tears if she saw him like this. He let out a small whimper but refused to cry. A terrible guilt fell on him. He was back in his depression, one that seemed never ending. The fish-scale cocaine _had_ brought him out of it, perhaps it would again. He had little other purpose in life; this made him sad, and rightfully so.

He opened his eyes fully, for more than a minute. A tear rolled down his cheek but his hands were tied to the bed. He felt pitiful, looked it too. His lower lip quivered. What was he doing with his life?

Another nameless nurse walked in to see him in his sad state. He looked over at her with sad doe-eyes that begged her to pity him. He had no such luck. She checked his vitals without a word, filled the blood-pressure cuff too full, hurt him when she changed the location of his IV. What poor luck for poor Sherlock. He felt the world caving in on itself. He just wanted the woman’s pity.

He needed a hug.

Sherlock came to the realization his personality wasn’t returning to him; rather he was experiencing another stage of withdrawal. He let out a heavy sigh. It was a long stage and a dreadful one at that. It could go on for days. He’d sulk and sulk for days on end and one day out of the blue he’d be right as rain. Back on the streets striking up deals, conning innocent people out of their money, scoring some blow.

He was hit with a sudden craving. His cock twitched.

_That’s not good._

His hands were still tied to the bed. He didn’t want to appease himself but he desperately wanted to be able to cover himself up in case of any unwanted growth. He lifted his knees up and scooted back in the bed, hoping that would conceal him, just in case. He resolved to stay awake and fight his inner demons. He took in some deep breaths.

His eyes became heavy and he was soon lulled to sleep by the gentle sounds of hospital. He woke up when he felt a hand on his. They were untying his restraints.

“You’re going to be released today,” the nurse said cheerfully. Sherlock recognized her face; she was the one that tucked him in. He tried to remember if he’d offended her. He shrugged.

_Probably._

A police officer stepped in and Sherlock’s heart dropped.

_Released to the police! I’ve been had! Wait… I recognize this man. Where have I seen him before?_

Sherlock’s brain clicked and whirled. He hated when his brain moved slowly. It enraged him to no ends. He needed to know where he’d seen this man before and he was drawing a blank.

The officer took off his cap and stepped closer to Sherlock’s bedside. He had a look on his face that expressed disappointment.

_Why would he care?_

Sherlock was hit with an image of the diner, the twenty pound note, and the worn out Constable.

“I didn’t spend a penny on the junk,” Sherlock burst out. It was technically true, “Please,” Sherlock pleaded.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Lestrade sighed, “I’m taking you home.”

“I haven’t-“

“My home,” Lestrade said, “Got the call that you OD’d on some bad junk.”

_Oh no Constable, it was some real high quality junk, I’d just prepared it wrong. Won’t happen again._

“Wait… why would they call you?”

“You gave them my number.”

_The napkin._

“My apologies Constable. I was in a delirium. I really didn’t mean for them to-“

“It’s really no problem.”

Sherlock thought a moment, “Did you say I was going home, _with you?_ ” he furrowed his brows.

“I know, it’s unorthodox,” he let out a heavy sigh, “I’m not doing this as police officer. I’m inviting you into my home as a decent human being.”

_Decent human beings don’t invite junkies into their home with all their valuables. This is a ploy, a trap. What is this man’s angle?_

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and blinked several times. He’d been out of it for far too long. He was going to mutilate Raz when he got his hands on him. This set him back days. He would never be able to come up with the money in such a short time.

The nurse returned with his bag of personal belongings. Sherlock withdrew the purple shirt and Lestrade quickly snatched it away. He checked the tags.

“Where did you get this?” Lestrade asked with a gasp.

“Hey, I paid good money for that!” Sherlock reached for the shirt. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and let out a puff of air.

_He’s reconsidering taking me in. Good. I have work to do. I can’t be bothered with this._

“I’ll be out in the hall, you get yourself dressed. We have a lot to go over.”

Sherlock was in disbelief. He was used to sleeping in strange places with even stranger men but this was too unusual for him. He was frightened that something was amiss. He didn’t see it as an act of kindness; it had to be some sort of manipulation.

He had to weasel his way out of this and escape before things became out of hand. Sherlock looked for a mode of escape but the only way of exit was the door where Lestrade would be waiting for him. He couldn’t make a break for it. He’d have to go to this man’s house, wait for him to fall asleep, and make his escape then.

He quickly got dressed and went to stand on uneasy feet. His head was spinning and he had sharp stabbing pains in his abdomen. He clutched on to his stomach and limped towards the door. Lestrade was waiting for him, as promised.

He signed the discharge papers and received his home-care instructions. As they stepped outside Sherlock went to throw the useless papers away. Lestrade stopped him and took the papers away.

“Might be some useful information in here,” Lestrade said folding up the papers. He placed them in Sherlock’s bag of belongings.

“They are details on how to get _help._ I don’t need their opinions,” Sherlock scowled.

“Should look into it,” Lestrade shrugged, “Could do you some good,” Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the pavement ahead of them, “Listen, I thought we’d set up some ground rules,” Lestrade said as Sherlock growled and started walking faster, wanting to break away from the nagging officer, “Hold up,” he raced to keep up with Sherlock, “You need a place to stay, while you’re recovering.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

“Who said I was recovering? And who said I _needed_ a place to stay? I have plenty of _places_ to stay. So just leave me alone!” he hissed.

“Mrs Hudson says she’s not looking to press charges,” Lestrade said. Sherlock let out a loud feral growl, “If you clean up your act.”

“Why must you be so! Arg!” Sherlock shouted as he tugged at his hair, “Look, it doesn’t matter. Forget about me, I’m a lost cause!”

“You’d rather I take you in for robbery?”

“Is that a threat officer?” Sherlock sneered.

“I just want to help.”

“Why?” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.

“Because, I do, all right?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shoved his hands in his pockets once more.

“What you did the other night… at the diner. That was… bloody amazing.”

Sherlock looked puzzled. He couldn’t exactly remember what he did the other night when he went out with the man.

“What was?” Sherlock asked looking him over.

“That deductive reasoning. It was outstanding! Unlike anything I’ve seen before. I mean… you got it spot on.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded.

“You’re inviting me to stay with you because you’re… intrigued?” Sherlock narrowed his gaze. He let out a snort. “That has got to be the saddest excuse for a-“ Sherlock stopped himself short, he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “All right! All right… I’ll humour you,” Sherlock laughed as he shook his head.

They walked through the car park and stopped in front of a motor bike. Sherlock looked at the old BSA motorcycle. It was hardly a pushbike with a motor attached. He grimaced and looked at Lestrade.

“I thought you came by car,” he said with a gulp.

“Hop on, got an extra helmet and everythin,” Lestrade took his bag and stuffed it in the basket on the back.

Sherlock laughed heartily, “Oh, no, you must have me mistaken with someone else,” he shook his head and pointed at the bike, “You are not getting me on that _thing.”_

“Why not?” Lestrade laughed at Sherlock’s apprehension.

“It’s… it isn’t safe!” Sherlock shouted with a squeak. He looked at the vehicle in disgust.

“Safe? Safe! You’re one to talk! Didn’t you just overdose in a back alley on heroin?”

“It was a speedball,” Sherlock said with an air of defiance, “Besides… there aren’t any… handles.”

“You just hold on to me.”

Sherlock glared at him and Lestrade chuckled.

“It’s not far, come on. You’ll love it,” Lestrade kicked up the stand and straddled the bike. He removed his cap and placed the helmet firmly on his head. He handed a helmet off to Sherlock who looked it over. He gave the inside a small sniff.

“Women just _love_ a bad boy, don’t they?”

“Shut up and get on,” Lestrade laughed. He was too cheery, Sherlock decided. Sherlock let out a deep sigh and nestled the helmet on his head. He did up the strap and awkwardly mounted the bike. There was nothing to hold on to, save the man in front of him. He was pressed firmly against Lestrade’s back, with hardly an inch between them. He daintily put his hands on Lestrade’s shoulder.

Lestrade fought back a smile as he kick started the engine. It revved and purred like a feral cat in heat. Sherlock’s blood turned to ice as they lurched forward. Lestrade backed out of the spot, lined up, and without warning, accelerated like a rocket off a launch pad. In a flash, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the man’s torso, buried his helmet in the man’s back, and clamped his eyes shut.

His mind kept repeating the mantra:

_I’m going to die, I’m going to die, oh dear God I’m going to die._

His heart was pounding in his chest, his whole body was vibrating, and he was in an absolute terror. It was nothing like the rush of cocaine, it was just stupid and dangerous. He felt the wind ripping at him through his thin shirt. He clenched on to Lestrade tighter and felt his radiating warmth.

When the ride from hell finally stopped in front of a row house Sherlock was more than relieved. Lestrade parked the bike on the street, “You can let go now,” Lestrade laughed. Sherlock was slightly embarrassed as he withdrew his death grip from the man’s chest. Lestrade dismounted and he instantly felt cold.

Sherlock took off the helmet and shook out his hair. He let out a sigh of relief. He dismounted the bike and found his legs had turned to jelly. He stumbled up the walk-way and Lestrade laughed at him heartily.

“You’ll get used to it.”

_No I won’t!_

Lestrade opened the gate and let Sherlock in. Sherlock looked up at the red brick house with its black shingles and pitched roof and thought perhaps the place had potential. Lestrade unlocked the door. Once Sherlock got a good look at the insides he thought _perhaps not._

“Oh my,” was all Sherlock could say. He was never one for decorating nor did he care the majority of the time, but this space was something special.

“Yeah, you hit it spot on when you said I couldn’t move a speck of dust. Sorry for the state of the place," Lestrade apologised.

Sherlock’s lips tugged into a smirk. The place was absolutely atrocious. The woman had obviously had a thing for elephants. They adorned the mantel above the fireplace and just about everywhere else. They were all mismatched, brass, ceramic, glass, plastic, and all of varying colours and sizes. The front room was a hodgepodge of mismatched knick-knacks and furniture. The carpet was a ghastly shade of green, perhaps ‘forest’ green at one point in its life but now it was more a dull shade of ‘gastrointestinal upset’ green.

The sofa was pepto-bismol pink and overstuffed. It had lace doilies on the arms, the yellow stains on one suggested that the woman had taken residence on that sofa. It lined up perfectly with the telly set so this was a logical assumption.

_Yes she would have to sit in that spot for the best picture._

The telly was massive, one of those rear projection models with the textured screen. They were supposed to be ‘top of the line’ but if one moved a foot to either side the picture faded and soon became black, so there was only one good angle to view the telly at and it was reserved for the head of the household. Sherlock looked over the faux wood paneling on the televison set. It was bought brand new, along with the video player.

Sherlock looked at it confused. The expensive electronics didn’t fit the woman’s tight spending. He looked over at Lestrade.

_There is something wrong with him. He spent his entire pay cheque on this equipment for his grandmother to squat in front of it._

There was an upright piano pressed against the wall that separated the kitchen from the living area. It was coated in a thick layer of dust but had finger marks running down the fall.

_Played frequently, but not well maintained. Holding it for storage._

Sherlock gave the room a sweeping look and found it concerning that there wasn’t a single framed photograph. This was another sign of severely dysfunctional family. They didn’t even make an effort to appear remotely attached to one another.

Sherlock let the thought linger as he stepped into the kitchen.

_Black and white checked tiles, red countertops, and a green fridge. Hm._

Sherlock stepped out of the God awful kitchen. Lestrade was standing uncomfortably near the door, shifting from foot to foot. His look seemed to ask ‘Well?’ Sherlock gave him a shrug. It wasn’t the Ritz but he could manage.

“I take it I’m to sleep on the sofa?”

“Yeah well, there are two rooms but-“

“One is stacked floor to ceiling with shit.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, blushing, “I mean once my sister comes round to pick through the stuff, you could… maybe… yeah.”

_He’s looking for a more long term living arrangement. Why? Is he that desperate? Is he blind? Did I not just betray his trust? What is wrong with this man?_

“I’m gonna pop upstairs and change. You erm… make yourself at home then.”

“I suppose I’ll start unpacking.”

Lestrade smiled and rushed up the stairs.

_Attachment issues? Separation anxiety? God, I need to get out of here._

Sherlock ran into the kitchen and spotted the phone on the wall. He pulled the phone of the hook and held the receiver to his ear. He looked at the rotary dial and held his finger out a moment. He'd never used a rotary phone before, though he’d seen his brother use one a million times over.

He placed the phone back on the hook. The last time he’d tried something he’d never done before he ended up in hospital. He itched at his arm. The kitchen was giving him vertigo. It was sensory overload. He was hungry but he didn’t want to eat. He stepped out of the kitchen and returned to sitting room.

Lestrade rushed down the stairs in jeans and a t-shirt. He was excited about something. Sherlock was hoping he wasn’t excited about his arrival.

Sherlock pressed his back against the wall and continued itching at his arm. Lestrade plopped down on the sofa. Sherlock took a seat on the piano bench and looked at Lestrade cautiously. He grabbed the remote and switched on the set.

“Any preferences?”

Sherlock shook his head. He placed his hands between his knees and tried to refrain from rocking back and forth. There was plenty of room on the couch. Lestrade was on the right end where his view of the screen would be impaired. He was subconsciously offering Sherlock the best seat in the house.

Sherlock looked at the telly disinterestedly, hardly able to make out the figures on the screen. He kept noticing Lestrade’s eyes darting over to him. Sherlock looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Its pendulum was swinging hypnotically. He became transfixed in its motions.

The clock was very much like the one he’d had growing up. His father had to remove it from the study when Sherlock became too distracted by it to keep up with his studies. He was scolded far too often for his short attention span. Sherlock thought this was unfair, his attention span was plenty long enough, he could hyper focus and shut out the world for hours if he put his mind to something. He had no interest in world languages, economics, social studies, and other bollocks. He was an explorer; he wanted to discover the world for himself, not through the words of a textbook.

When his brother, Mycroft, told him there was nothing new under the sun, he was heartbroken.

“Sherlock, there isn’t an island uncharted or a stone that has been left unturned. It’s all been done before,” he said comfortably from his wingback arm chair, “There really isn’t much left to be discovered.”

Sherlock was disappointed with life very early on. Everything had a name to it, from the plastic tips on his shoelaces to the space between his eyebrows. He desperately wanted a time machine so he could be the one to discover gravity, find America, and wear tights and a funny hat without ridicule.

“I think I shall be a pirate,” Sherlock proclaimed to his brother one day at the breakfast table. His brother let out a heavy sigh.

“The cost of piracy far outweighs the benefits, Sherlock. It isn’t an economically sound career path.”

“I hear they used their eye-patches to preserve their night-vision! You see the-“

“That’s nice, Sherlock,” Mycroft dismissed him thusly.

Mycroft wasn’t one for fantasies or make-believe. He was more the sitting down type. Mycroft always had his nose in a book while Sherlock had his head in the clouds.

One thing he could say about Mycroft was that he understood him. As much as they fought and their ideas clashed, he didn’t deject his brother like his peers did. Sherlock never got along with kids his own age. They didn’t understand him, so they ostracized him and excluded him from their play.

He was really quite baffled by it. He liked the same things they liked, pirates, yo-yo’s, he even owned a sizeable collection of action figures. So what made him so different?

Somehow he played ‘wrong’.

“What is the point of having an imagination if everyone must share the same thoughts?” Sherlock confronted his brother after a particularly nasty play-date where he had been called a freak and was shut in a closet for two hours.

“A child’s mind is hard-wired to fear non-conformity. You musn’t go against the status quo.”

“They’re just scared cos I’m smarter,” Sherlock said with a huff.

“Don’t incur the wrath of the mob, Sherlock, it’s never wise,” Mycroft said with a sigh, “You must learn to play their little games. Be the wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“But I’m not a wolf!” Sherlock protested.

Mycroft patted him on the head, “That’s right, little brother. You’re the black sheep,” he said with a grin.

It was years later that Sherlock found out that his brother’s statement was meant to be malicious. He had lived up to the expectation and became the black sheep of the family. What angered him most was that he wasn’t barred off from them completely. No matter what he did he couldn’t seem to shake them.

The clock struck five and Sherlock snapped out of his daydream. The clock chimed malevolently in its low key. Sherlock licked his bottom lip. His stomach started to growl in earnest.

“Hungry?” Lestrade asked from across the room. Sherlock shook his head, “They feed you at the hospital?”

“Can’t remember,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“You craving anything? You know other than… yeah…” Lestrade said with a blush, “Didn’t mean…” he said awkwardly, “What d’you like to eat?” he corrected. He stood up and walked toward the kitchen.

“I’m fine really,” Sherlock’s stomach called him out on the lie with a loud snarl.

“Beans on toast?” he offered. Sherlock shook his head, his upper lip snarled in disgust.

“Anything but that.”

“Pizza?”

“Not that either,” Sherlock said clutching his stomach. He silently begged it to hush.

“You ever heard the phrase ‘beggars can’t be choosers’?” Lestrade laughed as he disappeared into the kitchen.

“Wasn’t asking for anything!” Sherlock shouted in annoyance, “Honestly, I’m fine!”

“No you’re not!” Lestrade shouted back. Sherlock heard the sound of plastic being crinkled, the button on the toaster being pushed down. Sherlock gritted his teeth as he waited.

_I hate beans on toast._

The toaster popped and Sherlock was tempted to tell the Constable he was delusional if he thought he’d take one bite. Lestrade brought out the plate and Sherlock looked it over.

_Sugar on toast… intriguing._

“Didn’t have cinnamon. Sorry.”

Sherlock took a bite and started to drool. He shoved the whole piece of toast in his mouth.

“More?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. The officer made him another seven pieces of toast. Sherlock finished off the last piece and started licking his fingers clean.

“Glad someone appreciates my cooking,” Lestrade laughed.

“You have a way with a toaster.”

“You gotta know how to press it, just right,” Lestrade smiled.

“What’s today?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Erm… Monday.”

“Yes but what _day_ is it?” Sherlock asked slightly annoyed.

“The third.”

“Of?”

“You serious?”

“Dates are irrelevant, I need only know what day of the week it is.”

“Then… why’re you asking?”

“It’s a simple enough question,” Sherlock thought a moment, “It’s past September, not yet December. So which is it then?”

“October, Sherlock…” Lestrade looked at him concerned, “Why?”

 “’ _94,"_ he whispered.

“Wait, what?” Lestrade asked aghast.

“What?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

“I heard you,” Lestrade laughed, “94?” Sherlock turned away and crossed his arms, “You serious?” he asked. Sherlock blushed and averted Lestrade’s amused gaze, “Oh come on, you cannot be serious.”

“I _said_ I don’t concern myself with dates,” he sneered.

“Yeah but the year, Sherlock?” Lestrade laughed. Sherlock felt like curling up into a ball and hiding, “All right, all right. No need to be embarrassed,” Sherlock shrugged up his shoulders and drew in his legs. He rested his chin on his knees and let out a sigh, “You gotta admit though… it’s kinda funny,” Lestrade smirked. Sherlock kept staring at the grandfather clock.

“It’s not funny,” he muttered.

“You erm… sure you’re eighteen?” Lestrade asked uncomfortably.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a scowl.

_Now I’m sure._

“How long have you been slamming coke, then?”

“Eighteen months this November.”

“Seventeen months then.”

Sherlock blinked; then turned towards him, “I’m to quit then?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade gave him a stoic look, “Under house arrest?”

No response.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, “You can’t make me stay," he placed his feet firmly on the ground.

“Mm, you should think that one over,” Lestrade said leaning back on the sofa.

“Kidnapping!” Sherlock snapped, “That’s what this is! You’re holding me hostage!”

“Hostage? How d’you think I’d manage that?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock looked at him puzzled, “I was suggesting you think it over. Nah, you’re free to come and go as you please.”

“I could leave right now?”

“Right now,” Lestrade assured.

Sherlock went to stand, “Well, I best be off then. No need to see me out.”

_I have one day to come up with the funds, I’m seriously behind schedule. This set back is going to cost me dearly. I haven’t the time for a proper con, nor can I perform enough favours in twenty-four hours. Oh don’t look at me like that. You hardly know me; if anything you should expect disappointment._

“Will you be back?” Lestrade asked with a gleam of sadness.

“Perhaps.”

“Mind if I ask where you’re off to?”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, mulling it over.

“Old acquaintance,” Sherlock swallowed hard, “Has something of mine and I’d rather like to see it in my possession once more.”

“Where’s he at?” Lestrade asked crossing his arms.

_Interrogations, typical._

“Kensington,” Sherlock said crossing his arms as well, “And I shan’t be needing a ride. Not on that… _thing,"_ a cold unpleasant shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine imaging riding on the back of the motorbike again.

“Right then,” Lestrade reached into his jean’s pocket and pulled out a fiver along with a spare key, “In case you change your mind.”

Sherlock walked over, and grabbed the note and key. He shoved the key in his pocket and looked over the fiver. He gave Lestrade a nod of appreciation.

_Enough for tube fare, to and from. He’s becoming less trusting._

Sherlock paused a moment.

“Suppose I could use a shower,” Sherlock said sheepishly.

“All’s I got is the soaking tub.” Lestrade said and Sherlock grimaced, “Sorry, it’s an older build.”

“Renovated twice?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade grinned and nodded. “Once after the war, and another… mid seventies?”

“Spot on.”

“Well, I guess there’s no such thing as a ‘quick bath’. I’ll be off then.”

“G’luck,” Lestrade said leaning back further into the sofa. Sherlock rubbed at his arm and turned to leave. When he reached the door he felt a slight pang of something that the ordinary person would say was ‘guilt’ but Sherlock was more apt to say it was worry.

He needed the meeting to go without a hitch if he was ever to secure the prime product.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Sherlock got to the door of the white-washed stucco terraced house in Kensington, he was chilled to the bone. His teeth were chattering and he was shivering from head to toe. He’d pocketed the cash and walked in the blistering cold for an hour and a half to Kensington Gardens.

He could have easily taken the train to Notting Hill and saved himself the despair, but he hoped his pitiful appearance would win some sympathy with his adversary. He rapped gently on the front door. Through the bay window, he saw the shadow of a figure shift inside. He tried to get a better look inside but the curtains were drawn tight.

The door opened slowly and only a crack at first.

“Yes?”

Sherlock looked up at his brother with the most pathetic look he could muster. Mycroft opened the door a smidge more and leaned in against the door jam. He crossed his arms and looked Sherlock over.

“I am to presume that you’ve cleaned up your act?” Mycroft eyes scanned down Sherlock's person and stopped at Sherlock’s ratty trainers. He raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock had hoped the pricey shirt and trousers would have his brother fooled. No such luck.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock said with an air of pride.

“Yes,” he agreed, “However…” Sherlock titled his head to try and see in the entryway behind his brother, “Not by choice.” Mycroft noticed Sherlock’s intent, “My door is always open to you.”

“But not your home,” Sherlock stated bluntly. Mycroft shifted to block his view.

“I’m not apt to make the same mistake twice.”

“I came for what’s mine,” Sherlock said. Mycroft waited for him to continue. Sherlock took in a deep breath, “My clothes… a few books, maybe the walkman?”

“You’ve found lodgings?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded. A small sigh escaped his brother’s nose and Sherlock knew he had him, “Step inside,” Mycroft said stepping back. Sherlock stepped into the entry way and Mycroft gently shut the door behind him. Sherlock began looking around, his eyes scanning every fine detail from the crown molding to the hand-crafted baseboards.

Sherlock put his hands behind his back when he caught his brother looking at him.

“How is he? Your flatmate?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, “Sharing a house,” he said smugly. His face changed when he saw his brother’s expression, “It isn’t… he’s not like that,” Sherlock straightened up, “He’s a police officer,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, “He’s been helping me get clean. Takes his job real serious.”

“I’m sure he does,” Mycroft said with a snide tone. Sherlock bit his tongue. He was at his brother’s mercy.

“Shall we?” Sherlock motioned to the stairs.

“No, you’ll wait here,” Mycroft insisted. Sherlock frowned with disappointment, “Would you rather wait outside?” Mycroft threatened. Sherlock shook his head, “I’ll be down shortly,” Mycroft turned to climb the stairs, “Need I remind you?”

“Hands to myself, got it,” Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets. When Mycroft turned his back, he stuck his tongue out and made a face.

Sherlock shuffled his foot as he waited. Mycroft no longer kept anything small or of real value in the foyer or sitting room. He had certainly learned his lesson when Sherlock made off with his silver pocket watch. It was a pointless theft, one that had betrayed his brother’s trust, but Sherlock wasn’t sure why Mycroft was still angry with him over it.

Mycroft got the watch back, after paying off the pawn loan. Thievery was a victimless crime in Sherlock’s eyes. He’d get his hands on something of value, pawn it, the police would return the item to its rightful owner, and Sherlock made off with the cash. Everyone was happy when all was said and done.

Mycroft returned down the stairs with a small suitcase. He handed it over to Sherlock who clutched it tight.

“One more thing,” Sherlock said licking his lips.

“No,” Mycroft said plainly, “You have your things, now go.”

“It’s mine, Mycroft.”

“You’ll sell it.”

“It’s mine to do with what I please,” Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“You may have it when you come of age,” Mycroft opened the door and tried to usher Sherlock out by his forearm.

“It isn’t part of the inheritance! It is _mine,_ mummy gave it to me and I want it!” Sherlock shouted, wrenching his arm from Mycroft’s grip.

“Must we part on unpleasant terms?”

“Why can’t I have what’s _mine_?”

“It is not yours to sell,” Mycroft said, raising his voice, “Now please, leave at once.”

Sherlock’s blood felt like it was about to boil.

_I’d easily get two grand for the blasted instrument. Mycroft doesn’t even play! How would he miss it? It has no sentimental value! He could even buy it back if he wanted it so badly._

“The spare then,” Sherlock said planting the heels of his shoes in the doorway, “Give me the practice violin and I’ll be on my way.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, what would I get for it anyhow, fifty? Maybe seventy-five pounds? It’s hardly enough to get high for long nowadays. You wouldn’t be fueling my drug addiction. If that’s what you’re so worried about.”

“What use would it be to you?”

“I want to play again.”

“Surely you can’t be serious,” Mycroft said with a laugh, “You never learned in the first place!”

“Not properly, no. But I want to,” Sherlock pleaded. Mycroft chuckled maliciously, “I’m serious! I want to pay my way.”

“Right,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“I could form a talent for it, play in the streets; earn my keep.”

“One does not ‘form’ talent,” Mycroft said with a sigh, “I musn’t buy into it.” he said to himself, “You’ve manipulated me in the past.”

“My intentions are pure!”

“I’m not willing to believe-“

“Please. No harm will come to you.”

“You believe I only worry about myself,” Mycroft said with a sad sigh, “What have I to worry about?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said with a grin, “Please. I need this.”

“I don’t easily forget, brother dear.”

“It will be put to good use, I swear.”

“Wait here,” Mycroft said with a defeated tone. He walked up the stairs once more. Sherlock bounced with excitement.

_I have it covered! I earn a thousand on the street, two hundred for the shirt and trousers another two hundred for the violin and I’m there! I only need a small extension. Simple._

Mycroft brought the violin case down and shoved it roughly into Sherlock’s waiting hands. He had a fire in his eyes that dared Sherlock. Sherlock gave his brother a bright smile and left with an uplifted spirit.

In a week’s time he’d have his hands on an ounce of the finest blow money had to offer.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg woke up the next morning five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He groaned in discontent. He shut his eyes for what felt like two seconds and was awoken by the alarm’s ear-piercing shriek. He let out an extra loud groan and hit the off button none-too-gently.

He rolled over on to his back. He was exhausted, having waited up all night for Sherlock to return. He closed his eyes gently; then let out a heavy sigh. He sat up before he could fall asleep again, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and started rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

After a quick visit to the loo, he popped downstairs to put the water on for coffee. He near jumped out of his skin when he saw the young man lying on his sofa. Once his shock wore away it was replaced with excitement.

_He came back! I knew he would… well, no I didn’t._

Sherlock looked cold, curled up in a fetal position, with no blanket. He had an open suitcase on the floor next to him with a few articles of clothing hanging out. A book lay on top of the pile.

_‘Diatoms of Nebraska’ sounds exciting._

Greg noticed the violin case propped up against the piano.

_Ah-ha, that’s what he was after. Market’s rough for instruments. Won’t fetch him much. Nowhere near what it’s worth._

Sherlock stirred slightly and Greg tip-toed backwards and turned softly. The floor boards creaked under him and he cursed silently. He was in a hurry to get out of the door on time but he was careful to not make a peep. He set the kettle on high, rushed up the stairs to wash and shave, and was back downstairs before the kettle whistled.

He left the coffee to steep in the French press while he ran up the stairs once more to get dressed. He pulled on his stab vest and laced up his boots. He looked at his high-visibility jacket and let out a sigh. He’d preferred the old business attire, why did they have to look like gaudy road cones?

He shrugged the jacket over his shoulders, made one last trip down the stairs, and passed by the couch as quietly as possible. Sherlock mumbled something and Greg stopped in his tracks. After a moment, he shrugged it off as nothing.

He went into the kitchen to finish making coffee and started debating leaving a note.

_He won’t wonder where I’m at, probably won’t even notice I’ve gone. Still, might be a good gesture._

Greg stepped out of the kitchen with his cup of coffee.

_Nah he’ll think I was treating him like a lil' kid. He’ll be fine. Running late, best be heading out. Just leave him. He’ll be just fine._

Greg finished off his coffee, threw the cup in the sink, and was off.

The day started out miserable. It was a dreary day with no prospects of clearing up. He’d been assigned, or rather reassigned, to Tobias Gregson his polar opposite. Gregson was a tow-head with a lanky build and a cocky attitude. His general demeanour suggested he truly believed the world revolved around his dick. He was snarky and rude to the new Constables, yet a complete kiss-ass to his superiors.

He had a smooth way of talking, whereas Greg often stumbled to find his words when he was in trouble. Greg owned up to his mistakes and looked like a beaten puppy when he was reprimanded. It was hard to imagine he’d ever had a rebellious bone in his body.

He hated riding shot-gun to such a bastard, but he had no say in the matter. After giving out directions to lost tourists, cleaning up a minor car-crash, and dealing with the general hubbub and mindless paperwork of a day-shift, Greg was bored out of his mind.

He met up for lunch with Sergeant Sally Donovan at a dark and gloomy pub in central London. The only perk was the place was dead quiet and they never got hassled by the regulars who were in their late seventies to early eighties.

The pub owner was of Irish origin. He had a rough look to him but anyone that knew him well enough knew the scars on his face were left over from a horrible bout of cystic acne in his younger days and not from a slew of bar fights.

Sally, on the other hand, had been in her fair share of fights, and was often the instigator. She was a stone-cold bitch, but had for whatever reason taken a liking to Greg. She hadn’t even thought of being in the CID until Greg brought it up one day.

She brought up a recent murder case that had recently hit the media circuit. It was the third in a string of serial killings and the Yarders were at their whit’s end trying to find the perpetrator.

“You were on the scene right?” she asked after their food arrived.

“Yeah well… I was outside of the ropes,” Lestrade said while he drowned his chips in malt vinegar.

“They had you on traffic didn’t they?”

“Weren’t much neither,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“Yeah well, you’ll get there eventually.”

“It’s not like I get off on that stuff-“

“I know,” Sally interjected, “Beats working with junkies and tourists, though.”

“Or junky tourists.”

Sally laughed at his sad little joke. By the end of lunch they struck up a conversation about the upcoming FA cup. Greg was Liverpool all the way, but he’d put real money on Manchester. Of course Sally was determined to see Chelsea in the finals again.

They parted on good terms and went their separate ways.

The rest of the work day was spent having his ear talked off by Gregson who constantly spoke about himself in an arrogant manner. They patrolled for hours with no action. Greg preferred working late nights, when the freaks came out to play. Crime, in general, was slower when the weather started to turn.

Greg was exhausted by the time his shift was over. He rode home in the pouring rain and by the time he pulled up to the gate his bottom half was drenched down to his underwear. The moment he turned off the engine and dismounted the bike, the rain stopped.

_Just my luck._

Greg walked through the gate and up to the front door. He turned the doorknob to find it unlocked. Sherlock was still sprawled out on the sofa. Greg took off his jacket and hung it up on the hook behind the door; then took a look at his watch. He walked over to check if Sherlock was still breathing. Sherlock stirred and let out a grunt.

_Has he moved an inch all day? Gran would have my head if I’d taken him in while she was still here. If I was a leech and a useless freeloader, what would she have thought of him?_

Sherlock rolled over on to his stomach and let his arm swing freely over the side of the sofa.

“It’s near six,” Greg said in passing as he walked into the kitchen. He saw no signs of the area being disturbed. His coffee cup still remained untouched in the sink. He looked in the fridge to find everything in its place. Greg let out a sigh and walked back out to the front room, “Sherlock, you haven’t had a bite to eat all day, get up,” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock shrugged him off.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock rolled over on to his back and half cracked one eye half open. He grimaced when the officer came into focus. He let out a low growl and turned his back to Lestrade.

“It’s six,” Lestrade repeated. Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and willed the intruder away, “Bout time you got up n’ joined the land of the living”

Sherlock had already been up. From the moment Lestrade left the door that morning he’d been up and practicing. He’d sawed away at his violin for the better half of the morning. His fingers were raw and close to bleeding. He’d played George Enescu’s Romanian Rhapsody (No. 1) twenty times on his walkman until the melody was seared into his memory.

He struggled through reconstructing the orchestral piece to suit a solo violinist. His mind ached from the daunting task, but near noon his fingers moved on their own accord. He’d given himself a good four hours to find a location, try out the piece on a sizeable crowd, and collect his spoils.

The unfavorable weather proved to be a challenge, he’d been shooed away from several potential venues, and people ignored him as they fled from the rain. He’d collected just under three pounds in odd change along with a Brazilian centavo. 

In all the commotion he hadn’t once had a craving but as soon as he returned to the house he felt the itch claw under his skin and settle into his conscious thought. It made his feet stir constantly and gave him disturbing dreams. He needed mental stimulus or his brain was going to tear itself to pieces.

He shot up off the couch, much to Lestrade’s surprise, and grabbed his violin. He unsheathed his bow and whipped it through the air making a loud swish. He brought the bow to his strings and sawed away violently.

Lestrade grimaced at the shrill cries of the violin as it was hacked and plucked by Sherlock’s lively fingers. The sound progressed quickly from shrieks to hollow vibrations. Sherlock was suddenly producing a whole bodied tone from the instrument, leaving Lestrade very confused at the change in direction.

Pain shot up Sherlock’s finger tips as he played; they began to tremble, giving the improv tune a bold vibrato. His mind was starting to buzz and his teeth ached, he transferred his frustration to the unfortunate instrument. Beethoven’s 5th crashed and collided with his Symphony No. 9. It was wildly frantic and left the listener chilled to the core.

He played feverishly until he couldn’t possibly hold strings down any longer. He stopped abruptly and let the violin fall from his chin. His eyes shot open and he immediately glared at Lestrade.

“I’ve been at it all day!” Sherlock shouted, “With nothing to show for it! What is the point? What is the purpose of it all?” he clenched his teeth and debated snapping his bow in two and giving it all up.

_I’m no closer to 1.4 grand than I was three days ago. Nothing can possibly soothe my inner torment, save that ounce of freedom. Why does it have to hurt so much?_

Sherlock placed his violin on the ground and stormed towards the front door.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade shouted after him.

“I need some! My mind is useless without it! I can’t possibly keep it satiated with this…” Sherlock flailed his arms then pointed a stern finger at the violin in the corner, “That!” he shouted.

“I thought it was good, once you got going,” Lestrade said with a shrug. Sherlock let out a feral growl, “Look if you need to occupy your mind with something, try this,” Lestrade grabbed a dusty old box out of the entertainment centre and started tearing into it. He released the colourful cube from inside its packaging and started twisting it this way and that. He tossed the jumbled puzzle to Sherlock, “Rubik’s cube.”

Sherlock turned the cube over in his hands.

“You have to make all the sides one colour,”Lestrade explained.

Sherlock began turning and twisting the cube. He looked intently at the puzzle in his hands.

_3 by 3 by 3, eight corners, twelve edges. Seven of the corner cubes can be oriented independently with the orientation of the eighth depending on the preceding seven, likewise eleven of the edges can be moved independently with the movement of the twelfth depending on the preceding eleven that would be four billion permutations in and of itself. Given that there are several billions of ways to arrange the edges and corners there could be upwards of trillions of possible solutions. How then, would the average man be able to solve this puzzle in a reasonable amount of time?_

Sherlock pondered as he twisted the cube mindlessly. Lestrade took a seat on the sofa and turned on the telly. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and settled in. Sherlock’s mind flooded with useless algorithms which had undesired outcomes on other portions of the puzzle. He was completely absorbed in the puzzle for two hours before Lestrade couldn’t take another moment of silence.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked.

“I’m sure you haven’t even considered eating today,” Lestrade said, placing his feet on the floor, “It's not healthy, you know?” Sherlock shrugged and returned his attention to the Rubik’s cube, “You’ve been clean for nearly four days, how are you not starving?”

“Hm, that long?” Sherlock asked disinterestedly.

“All I’ve seen you eat is half a loaf of bread… and sugar. Should be eating something with more substance, you know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a huff.

“Thought you would’ve figured it out by now,” Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock shot him a death glare. He gave the cube a few more twists then chucked the offensive brick at Lestrade’s head. Lestrade swatted the cube before it hit him square in the forehead. Sherlock was taken aback when he started laughing. He picked up the solved cube and looked it over, “Bout time.” he chuckled, “Now, Dinner, what d’you like?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said with a huff.

“Fine then, what do you hate the _least?”_

“You are far too accommodating; you’ll only perpetuate my appalling behaviour.”

Lestrade shrugged, “I'm used to it.”

“Are you glad the old bat is gone?”

“Nah, I mean she was my gran n’ all.”

“You say that as if it should mean something.”

Lestrade laughed, “I do, don’t I?” he let out a sigh, “she was a damned ol’ cold hearted witch. She did take me in though, when no one else could be bothered with me. If it weren’t for her, I’d be out on the street. Never would have had the same opportunities.”

“You’re on poor terms with your sister as well,” Sherlock looked the Rubik’s cube’s box over, “She doesn’t trust you with her children,” Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “You weren’t always the most trustworthy person. Running away at a young age, the motorbike, the slew of girlfriends,” Lestrade smirked at the last comment. Sherlock thought a moment, “Your spare helmet.”

“Yeah?” Lestrade inquired.

“Tea oils? Lavender? Conditioner? She uses salon quality products in her hair. You couldn’t get that girl on a motorbike seat that small unless she fancied you.”

“You think she fancies me?” Lestrade asked concerned. Sherlock gave him a half lidded look, “Sergeant Donovan needed a lift.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Oh, don’t give me that. We’re not like _that_.”

“Why not? She’s _obviously_ more than willing.”

“Because,” Lestrade said defensively.

“Then why lead her on?”

“We’re coworkers! I’d expect her to do the same thing.”

“I’m sure you would,” Sherlock said snidely.

“We’re just friends, I swear,” Lestrade started to laugh nervously, “You jealous or summat?”

Sherlock turned quickly on his heels, left straight through the front door, and slammed it shut behind him. He didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of any type of response.

The icy rain had picked up once more and Sherlock stood outside near the gate shivering. The front door opened and Sherlock moved to open the gate. He saw a bright yellow slicker fly at him.

“It’s high visibility, reflective,” Lestrade shouted from the door, “You go on and have your lil’ sulk. Don’t need you catching your death out there.”

“There’s no hood on it,” Sherlock complained. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Come inside then,” Lestrade said. Sherlock shook his head, “Come on, it’s freezing out!” Sherlock put on the jacket and turned up the collar, “You serious?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock ignored him and continued standing near the gate, “Suit yourself,” Lestrade slammed the door shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg felt defeated after slamming the door in Sherlock’s face and leaving him out in the cold. He went upstairs to have a smoke and change into something dry. While he was pulling his shirt over his head he heard the front door crack open. He couldn’t help but crack a smile at Sherlock’s lack of resolve.

The boy was brilliantly exotic but he was definitely a tough nut to crack. He was extremely high strung, which was to be expected with recovering addicts, but there was something different about him. Perhaps Greg was getting in over his head.  

Sherlock was frighteningly intelligent, which must be why he was an outcast. The general public had a way of stomping out anyone who was remotely clever. Children were cruel, he was well aware. Adults weren’t any better when it came to psychological torment. The only part that didn’t make sense to Greg: was how a kid, who was so bright, could get so heavily involved with drugs.

Maybe there was some sort of deep psychological issue with Sherlock that he had yet to uncover.

_He seems all there. He has it more together than most ‘normal’ people I know. God, what is it about him? What’s got me so attracted to him?_

Greg let out a heavy sigh and ran his hands over his face. He felt like he was losing it, not that he ever had ‘it’ in the first place.

_Why am I doing this to myself?_

He heard the front door slam once more. Greg quickly slid on a pair of sweats and pair of trainers and ran down the stairs. He opened the door to see Sherlock standing in the rain, he’d taken off the Hi-Vis jacket and was in his reversible jacket with the hood drawn up.

“What are you doing? Come inside,” Greg demanded. Sherlock shook his head, “You’re being ridiculous!” Sherlock crossed his arms and sat down on the wet ground, “Right, now you’re just being a child,” Sherlock drew his legs up to his chest and started to shiver, “You know what? I’m not putting up with this!” Greg took two steps, bent at the knees, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso, stood, and hauled him inside. He carried Sherlock to the sofa and let go. Sherlock fell on to the couch with a thud. Greg dead-bolted the door, “Dinner, what’re you having? You know what? You’re having pizza. Happy?” Greg stormed into the kitchen and pulled out a menu from the drawer.

* * *

Sherlock was in a terrible mood. The seat underneath him was starting to become soaked. He had a sharp stinging headache from the freezing rain. He was mad that he was irritable. He started to itch. His cravings were unbearable.

“Smoke!” Sherlock shouted. Lestrade cradled the phone against his shoulder and stepped out of the kitchen, stretching the phone cord to its limit.

“What?” he asked clamping his hand over the transmitter.

“You used to smoke!” Sherlock pulled out an ashtray from under the coffee table, “Where are they?” Lestrade gave him an odd look, “The cigarettes!”

“I-“

“Upstairs,” Sherlock bolted from the couch and ran up the stairs.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade whisper yelled. Sherlock opened the first door on the left.

_Pink._

The bathroom was a hideous shade of pink, with pink tiles, a pink soaking tub and a matching pink toilet. All of which was offset by the green pedestal sink. Sherlock shut the door so he wouldn’t have to look at the monstrosity a moment longer. He blinked a couple of times and resumed his endeavours.

He opened the second door on the left and saw the room was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes; the bed was littered with clothes, hopefully clean, likely not.

_Compulsive hoarder. Nothing of value but his sister desperately wants money, financial troubles? Failing marriage?_

Sherlock shook his head clear. He took a quick sniff of the area and gagged slightly.

_Mayfair. I’m not that desperate._

Sherlock stepped out of the room and crossed the hall to what was logically Lestrade’s room.

_Paternal grandmother._

Sherlock looked over the vintage train wallpaper, the aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling, and the bedding.

_The quilt was handmade, decorative piece, only started being used recently. Wallpaper is from the forties._

Sherlock stepped closer and examined it closely.

_Pre-war. Model aeroplanes are as well, tin would have been too costly during wartime, given the family’s income. Now where are those bloody cigarettes? Malboro… Wait._

Sherlock stepped towards the window. He ran his finger on the windowsill. He pressed his finger firmly against the window’s seal.

_Water tight, just as I thought, yet the windowsill is damp. He had the window open just a moment ago._

Sherlock ran out of Lestrade’s bedroom door and all but flew down the stairs. He turned the corner quickly and shouted, “Ah-ha! You never quit, did you? The cigarettes are in your pocket.”

“Never said I quit,” Lestrade said, concerned with Sherlock’s sudden erratic behaviour.

“No, but you have been trying to cover it up. The open window?” Sherlock reached out a hand, “Give,” He beckoned. Lestrade reached into his pocket and withdrew the packet. Sherlock snatched it from his hand.

“As long as you don’t do it inside.”

“I knew it,” Sherlock grinned. Lestrade handed him a lighter. Sherlock withdrew a cigarette, placed it between his lips and lit up. He shoved the rest of the packet into his jacket’s pocket.

“What part of outside-“

“It’s raining!”

“You just sat in a puddle out there with no problem, now get!” Lestrade tried shooing him out the door. Sherlock turned and defiantly plopped down in the middle of the sofa, “You little shit!” Lestrade fought back a smile. Sherlock could tell he was secretly enjoying their little game. He wondered how far he could push it.

Sherlock inhaled a long drag and exhaled a large plume of smoke through his nose. He grinned impishly. The grin was quickly wiped off his smug face when Lestrade plopped down next to him on the sofa and leaned in towards him. Sherlock’s eyes darted all over Lestrade’s face trying to make out his intentions. His nerves all seemed to fire at once. His veins coursed with adrenaline in a fight or flight response to the man encroaching on his personal space.

Sherlock’s leg jerked unintentionally when he felt Lestrade’s knee rub up against his. Lestrade’s look didn’t strike him as predacious but he couldn’t be entirely sure where this was heading. It frightened Sherlock to no ends. The addictive part of his nature reveled in the thrill of the unknown; yet his hand began to tremble from the other half of him that didn’t want to delve in this quandary.  

War waged between his two halves until one won out. He handed the cigarette over to Lestrade who snuffed it out in the ash tray on the table; all the while keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. Sherlock faltered and looked away momentarily. He brushed his hair behind his ear and shied away slightly.

Both men jumped at the sound of the door bell. A shock jolted up Sherlock’s spine and he found himself standing next to the sofa.

“You had better get that,” Sherlock said smoothing out the front of his jacket.

“You’re already up,” Lestrade said with a laugh. Sherlock swiftly fled into the kitchen, “You serious?” Lestrade bit back a smile and shook his head. He stood and greeted the delivery boy at the door. He gave him a bit extra for coming out in the rain. He shut the door gently and placed the pizza box on the coffee table, “You can come out now! He’s gone!” Lestrade shouted with a chuckle. Sherlock poked his head out from the kitchen, “Hey, grab some plates while you’re in there,” Lestrade said, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen. Sherlock walked out and went over to investigate the box, “Or not,” Lestrade mumbled.

Sherlock pulled the box open, “Cheese,” he said with distaste.

“You wouldn’t tell me what you liked; I went for the safe bet. Plain. Christ they’re quick. You remember when you couldn’t get a pizza delivered out here? Now they’re jumping at the bit to get the pizza delivered before you even pick up the phone,” Lestrade walked into the kitchen and grabbed two plates, when he returned he caught Sherlock mutilating the pizza, stripping it of the offending cheese, “Whoa!” Lestrade shouted, throwing the plates down on the table, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Sherlock asked snidely.

“Yeah but… you don’t have to go putting your grubby paws on my half.”

“Grubby paws?” Sherlock looked at him aghast. Sherlock reached out and wiped his marinara laden hands down Lestrade’s front.

“What the hell?” Lestrade looked down the front of his shirt, “Oh, you little shit! What’d you do that for?”

“Poor impulse control,” Sherlock shrugged stripping the last piece of pizza of its cheese. Lestrade groaned as he looked over the crime scene.

“It’s a crime against humanity, that’s what this is. Just cos you don’t want cheese on yours don’t mean I can’t have it on mine. For Christ’s sake, look at what you’ve done! It’s ruined!”

“Oh, it all ends up in the same place,” Sherlock said tearing off a piece. He smeared the excess sauce on the lid of the box and brought the slice to his lips. He paused, “What?” he asked when he saw Lestrade was giving him a look.

“You going to do that to the rest of the pie?”

“Would you like me to?” Sherlock quipped. Lestrade let out an annoyed sigh, grabbed a small handful of discarded cheese and placed it on his slice of pizza. The doorbell rang out once more and Lestrade let out a groan. He placed the slice of pizza on a plate and went to open the door.

* * *

Greg was truly surprised to see Sergeant Donovan standing at the door in the pouring rain. He stepped back and let her in. “What brings you here?” he checked the clock in the corner, “At this hour?”

“Been thinkin’-“ she paused and looked down at his shirt. She snorted a laugh and cracked a smile, “What is _that_?” she laughed, pointing at the sauce claw marks running down the front of his shirt. Greg turned to point out Sherlock but noticed he’d vanished. He looked around a moment before returning his attention to Sally.

“I-“ Greg started.

“Look, what you do in your own home is whatever,” She laughed.

“Hey, why don’t you take a seat, I’m just gonna pop upstairs, change my shirt, won’t be a minute,” Greg turned on his heels and rushed up the stairs. He took a sharp turn and ran right into Sherlock who was hiding in his doorway. He pulled him into the room and shut the door, “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered. Sherlock looked at Greg’s hand that was resting on his shoulder. Greg quickly took it off and stepped away.

He turned to go through his dresser drawer in search of a clean shirt.

“What is she doing here?” Sherlock asked in a volume just barely above a whisper.  

“Trying to figure that bit out myself,” Greg said as Sherlock narrowed in his gaze at him, “Don’t give me that,” Greg pulled off his shirt and grabbed a black and white shirt out of the drawer. He noticed Sherlock was staring at him, “Problem?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head. Greg looked down at his naked upper half and noticed a spot of red sauce on the trail of hair under his navel.

He licked his thumb and rubbed the spot away. He gave himself a last look over before pulling on his shirt.

“Idol?” Sherlock asked quietly, looking at the portrait on Greg’s shirt.

“Yeah, Billy Idol,” he said smoothing it out, “You know, Rebel Yell?” Sherlock gave him a blank look. “Unh,” Greg grunted in frustration, “Look, we’ll take care of that later,” he gave Sherlock a pat on the shoulder, which caused Sherlock to flinch and shrug away. Greg gave him an apologetic look and opened the door, “You coming?” he asked and Sherlock shook his head. “Right, suit yourself,” Greg wasn’t about to leave Sally waiting, she wasn’t exactly the most patient of women.

“Who was that you were talking to?” Sally asked as Greg reached the bottom step. He noticed she had opted not to sit on the damp sofa.

“Ah well, that was just…” Greg thought a moment; Sally raised her eyebrows in anticipation.

_Well shit, what is he? Doesn’t exactly pay the rent. Just kind of crashes on my sofa._

“It’s just my… um… Sher-“ Greg stopped a moment. Sherlock wasn’t exactly a common name and he wasn’t sure what kind of criminal record or reputation he had going for him at the Yard. “-ly” Greg finished.

“Sherly?” Sally repeated with a cocked eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Greg said scratching at the back of his neck.

“Like as in Shirley Temple?” she questioned. Greg nodded awkwardly.

_Yeah sure, that sounds good. Shit, she’s going to see through me in a heartbeat._

“She coming down?”

“Erm… don’t think so,” Greg said pressing his back against the stairwell.

_You just confirmed he’s a she! What are you doing? You have to face this woman nearly every day! Just tell her the truth already!_

“Here,” Greg walked over and flipped on the television set to drown out their conversation, “She’s going through a real rough time. Just trying to get her back on her feet is all.”

_Not a total lie. Yeah well… other than he’s not a girl! Idiot._

“She doesn’t have kids does she?”

“Nah.”

“Thank God, last thing you need-“

“Yeah I know,” he said, cutting Sally off, which he knew was a dangerous move but he hoped she’d sympathize with him, “Back to why you came. You’ve been thinking, and?”

“Right… s’nothing really. I could come back some other time, you know… when…” she motioned to the upstairs.

“When what?” Greg was truly lost. Sally was being coy. It really didn’t suit her, “Oh… we’re not…“

“Oh,” She cut him off, "Still I'd rather... You know what? I'll catch you tomorrow."

"You sure?"

“I best be going, it’s getting late.”

“Sorry, should I walk you to your car?”

“Nah, think I can manage. Police woman n’ all,” she laughed. He led her to the door and gave a small wave good-bye as she drove off into the night. He turned to see Sherlock hanging out on the bottom step.  

“Bet you overheard the bit bout-“

“Sherly?” Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

Greg shrugged, “Didn’t know how she’d take to you being… you,” he gave Sherlock an apologetic look, “Not sure if she’d look you up, you know?” Sherlock gave him a placid look.

“It’s fine.” he said with a dramatic sigh.

“You know what you need?” Greg asked. Sherlock furrowed his brows, “A night out. Saturday’s my day off, we could-“

“No,” Sherlock said shortly. He took his seat on the piano bench and crossed his legs.

“You don’t even know-“

“Night out. Dinner. Cinema. Walk in the park. No.”

“I was going to say roller skating.”

“No you weren’t.”

“How d’you know I wasn’t?”

“Your face tells all,” Sherlock said looking away, “It’s all too cliché.”

“Would you prefer sky-diving?”

 “Let it be known. I don’t have _friends_ and I especially don’t have _boy_ friends.”

Greg could only bite his tongue and raise his hands in defeat. He walked over to the stairs and gave Sherlock a final look, “I wasn’t asking you out on a date,” he said. Sherlock threw himself on to the sofa and glared at Greg from a distance.

He turned his back to Greg and pulled his knees in close. Greg took one step up the stairs.

“Would you like a blanket?” Greg asked sheepishly, running his hand along the banister.

“Leave,” Sherlock hissed.

“Ungrateful little git,” Greg mumbled as he climbed the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock lay with the lights on and the telly running in the background. He debated whether or not to call Lestrade back down the stairs to turn off the lights. He let out a heavy sigh.

_I need to remain focused. I haven’t much time to gather the funds. I’m letting myself get side-tracked. My violin skills are abhorred. I need to hone in and work on pieces that are more appealing to the masses._

Sherlock let out a small groan.

_Must I always bend over backwards to please the mob? It would be far simpler to rob a bank at gun point than trying to convince people to give their money over willingly._

His thoughts turned to Lestrade and he pushed them away.

_That man will not dictate my pursuit. I need this. God, I can’t handle this much longer. He’s so… preachy. I don’t need anyone telling me how to live my life. Especially not him. Sherly? Sherly! Where does he get off? For God’s sake, the man’s delusional. That woman would be down his throat if I hadn’t told him she was after him. It is all so transparent. How can he not see what’s happening right in front of him? Perhaps he chooses not to._

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

_I shouldn’t be giving him the benefit of the doubt. I can’t let things get out of hand like they did earlier. He’ll get the wrong idea._

Sherlock sighed and rolled over. He grabbed the remote and turned off the telly. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He was starting to feel tired. It had been a long day, he’d been off stimulants for four days, and his brain wasn’t used to being treated to such passiveness. It was starting to strain. He started to feel a fuzzy haze. His stomach churned with discomfort.

Images kept flashing at him. A textbook picture of Anabaena, a pearl-like prokaryotic algae. The pearl necklace he stole from the woman on Baker Street. The vase on her kitchen table with tiger lilies. The Native American princess in _Peter Pan_. Mycroft’s room.

_What was it doing in Mycroft’s room? That was my copy. He’d never asked to borrow it. Yet I allowed it to stay put._

Sherlock navigated Mycroft’s childhood room in his head. It was his favourite place in the world at one point in time. Mycroft's things were much more interesting than his own.

He could spend hours on end playing in Mycroft’s room, if he was allowed to, which he wasn’t, which made it all the more fun. Sherlock began to smirk at the memories that flooded his head. He finally found the one he was searching for and smiled fully.

_He used to read it to me. That’s why._

He could see the book’s cover, battered and torn, abused within an inch of its life. He’d thrown it down a flight of stairs at one point in time. At the back of Mycroft’s head, if his memory served him correctly.

Sherlock rather liked _Peter Pan: the Boy Who Would Not Grow Up._ He preferred it to _Sherlock Holmes: The Boy Who Would Not Shut-up, so His Elder Brother Threatened to Smother Him with a Pillow._ It was short story, in which Sherlock Holmes would whine incessantly and his brother would threaten to put a pillow on Sherlock's head and sit on it until he shut up.

Sherlock did like when Mycroft read to him. He had a very low and dull drawl to his voice; it put Sherlock to sleep every time. One of the main reasons he loved _Peter Pan_ out of all the stories was Mycroft’s insisting that fairies weren’t real. Sherlock couldn’t hold back his squeals of delight at the thought of a fairy dropping dead somewhere because of his brother’s distaste for make-believe.

“One of these days a fairy’s going to drop dead in our garden and I’m going to catch it,” Sherlock told Mycroft excitedly as they read through the part were Tinker Bell keels over, “Then, I’d collect enough fairy dust, sprinkle it all over you, and you’d be off to Never Neverland,” Sherlock bit his bottom lip, “Then I’d get your room!” he squeaked.

“There are two inherent flaws to your plan and I’m afraid they are most serious.  For one, in order for a fairy to drop dead in our garden, they must exist, and we both know fairies aren’t real,” Mycroft said and Sherlock smiled brightly as he imagined the fairy falling dropping the sky from a sudden heart attack, “Second, in order for me to fly, I would have to think happy thoughts,” Mycroft shrugged. Sherlock was disappointed that his plan had gone to ruins before it had a chance to come to apparition, “You will never get this room, Sherlock. I’ll see to it in my last will and testament that this room and all my belongings are left to the neighbour’s poodle.”

Their neighbour’s poodle was a vicious creature that had twice bitten Sherlock. The attacks were unwarranted and left Sherlock wary of four legged beasts. He was cross with Mycroft for quite some time after threatening to give his room to a stupid poodle instead of his own flesh and blood.

Sherlock sat up on the sofa and turned to face forward. He ruffled his hair with his hands and shook away the memories of his brother. He held his hair in his hands for a moment.

_I’m in desperate need of a shower._

His hair felt dirty, slick with grease and filth. He hadn’t seen a mirror in ages, not that he wanted to.

_Bath._

He grimaced at the thought.

_Who in their right mind would want to wallow in their own filth?_

He stood up and his head fired a shot of pain into his right temple. It left an agonizingly dull ache. He squeezed his head with both his hands. He made way for the stairs, rubbing his temples and letting out a small pathetic whimper.

The journey up the stairs left him out of breath. He started coughing at the top of the steps. He entered the hideous pink bathroom and turned on the tub’s tap. His headache started to ease as steam started to rise from the bathtub. He ventured a glance at the bathroom mirror and was sickened to see his reflection grimacing back at him.  

It pained him to see a fully grown man looking back at him. He was the very definition of masculinity without any hint of adolescence in his face. He looked refined and mature. It sickened him deeply. How could he possibly be called a kid when there wasn’t any youth left in him?

He turned so he didn’t have to look at himself any longer. He started to strip and began feeling disgust again. He was whippet thin but strikingly well built. There was no getting past his broad shoulders and chest. No matter how much he starved himself he’d always have a manly body.

He strived for androgyny but masculinity seemed to be winning out. As he saw it, he had two things going for him, lips and hips. He could never do a thing with his hair; it had a wicked curl to it. Even on the best of days he could never get it to cooperate, so he let it grow out like a weed. He found the less he fussed with it, the better it looked. He had never found himself attractive; at best he was revolted by his self image.

He stepped into the bath and let out a hiss at the scalding water. His skin instantly flushed red from the heat. He sat down slowly and leaned back, allowing the water to envelope him up to his neck. The vasodilatation eased his headache greatly but his cough worsened. His chest was starting to feel tight. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

He took in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and watched the steam rise off the water’s surface. His skin was starting to pulsate. He lifted a hand out of the water and it trembled in the cold air. His skin was bright red. He looked over his fingers which were stinging and raw. They were soft to the touch.

They were nothing like Lestrade’s calloused hands. Lestrade's rough exterior didn’t match up with his gentle demeanor. He had a rugged look to him but a baby face. It was off putting. He didn’t show his age but he wasn’t at all childish. Sherlock didn’t know what to make of him.

He had definitely caught Lestrade staring at him on more than one occasion. He’d also been caught off guard by his compliments. Men typically don’t compliment other men. He’d called him clever and smart, in a borderline flirtatious manner. He obviously preferred the attention of other men. He had even ‘accidentally’ flashed Sherlock when he stripped out of his t-shirt.

He was constantly giving him money without a second thought. Not to mention he was very touchy feely and always in Sherlock’s personal space. When the doorbell rang earlier he jumped as if he was trying to cover something up.

It was possible that he just wasn’t attracted to his coworker. Maybe she wasn’t his type.

_Or maybe “she's” aren’t his type. He’s been trying to get to know me and make a good impression. For God’s sake the man was trying to ask me out earlier!_

Sherlock had all the evidence laid out before him. It was irrefutable.

Sherlock took in a deep breath sank down into the tub. He submerged himself completely and winced in pain. He shot out of the water and gasped.

He scrubbed at his hair and ran his hands over his face.

_What is keeping me here? Why haven’t I left yet?_

There were millions of sofas to crash on in the London area. There wasn’t a single logical reason to remain in the man’s home. He’d be better off at his brother’s house.

Sherlock washed his hair and rinsed it off the best he could without submerging his head again. He let the water drain out of the tub and sat shivering. He started to cough, which exacerbated his head ache. He stood up, grabbed the towel off the rack and patted himself dry.

A chill ran all over his body. He pulled on his pants and undershirt. He wavered and lost his balance as he tried pulling on his jeans. He opened the bathroom door and was met with a rush of cold air. Sherlock’s teeth started to chatter as he shivered from head to toe.

He stumbled down the stairs, flipped off the light, and settled into the couch. He curled up into a tight ball and shivered violently.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock’s chest ached after a night of coughing fits. He finally passed out from exhaustion at four in the morning and started cursing himself when he woke close to noon. He bolted off the sofa, pulled on his jeans, threw on his jacket, and grabbed his violin case. His precious time was fleeting. He had no time to practice anything new, he’d have to improvise.

He was half-way out the door when he heard a shout from upstairs.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock groaned at the sound of Lestrade’s voice. He opened the door and was met with a rush of freezing air. It was raining side-ways; the skies were a sinister shade of red. An intense pain pierced Sherlock’s temples and made it difficult to keep his eyes open.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice was much closer now. Sherlock jolted when he felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Sherlock said with a grunt.

“You’re sick.”

“M’fine,” Sherlock’s chest constricted and he started another coughing fit. It was a dry cough, but persistent, “You’re not at work.”

“Night shift.”

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted and stepped outside.

“Jesus Sherlock! You’re going to catch your death out there!”

Sherlock ignored his nagging housemate and braced the bitter cold. He near collapsed in the streets several times after trying to entertain small crowds for several hours. He was up ten quid and a used band-aid by the end of the day.

He returned to the house, defeated and exhausted. He slept like a rock and didn’t wake until the next morning when he felt a hand on his forehead. He looked up drearily at the blurred figure in a policeman’s uniform. He could only hope it was Lestrade.

“You’re burning up,” Lestrade remarked. Sherlock nuzzled into the man’s cool hand as it was placed against his cheek, “Look, I’ve got to run, but please, _please,_ take care of yourself. I’ll try my best to be back before six."

Sherlock blinked and he was gone. He rolled off the sofa and crawled on his hands and knees to his violin case.

He didn’t remember how he got back to the house. All the lights were on and Lestrade was pacing the floor looking obsessively worried. Sherlock groaned and lolled his head to one side. He kicked the blanket off his feet and tried to get up.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Lestrade only had to give Sherlock a meager tap on the chest and Sherlock fell back on to the couch.

“Let me go,” Sherlock groaned. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. He ached all over and was shaking from head to toe. He thought he heard Lestrade say something, “I’m fine,” he coughed. He hated when his body betrayed him when he was lying. Lestrade retreated to the kitchen and Sherlock started coughing nonstop.

He stopped to breathe and heard a faint crackling in his chest. The popping sound rattled in his throat as he wheezed. Lestrade returned with a coat.

“No,” Sherlock threw his leg out in a feeble attempt to kick away the article of clothing, “I’m not going in.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mum!” Sherlock shouted. He continued to thrash his leg out at Lestrade. He coughed violently and his leg shook in protest to the movement.

“Sherlock, you’re going, and that’s final!”

“Mum,” Sherlock whimpered. His head fell back and he could only cry silently as Greg put the coat on, “This isn’t my coat,” he whined. Lestrade picked him up and Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade’s neck in fear of falling.

The A&E was a blur of chaos. The wait was excruciating. Every time Sherlock would nod off he was rudely awoken by incoming patients in the waiting room, bitching and moaning about their ailments. He kept the coat’s hood drawn up to hide his features as he laid his head on Lestrade’s lap and sprawled out the best he could on the row of seats.

They gave him an IV, x-rayed his chest, brought his temperature down a few points, and discharged him promptly.

“Pneumonia. I told you… standing out in the rain-“ Lestrade chided on the cab ride home.

“You don’t catch pneumonia standing out in the cold,” Sherlock growled.

“You’re staying in tomorrow.”

Sherlock let out a low throaty growl of detest. He felt Lestrade’s fingers idly combing through his hair. He hummed in content. His head felt too heavy to lift.

Sherlock begrudgingly stayed in for the next few days. Come Saturday he was itching to get back out on to the streets. It felt like Lestrade was constantly berating him. Lestrade was just like everyone else, kicking him while he was down. Maybe for a brief moment Sherlock believed he would be different. That he truly wanted to help.

“Leave me alone,” Sherlock rasped. He was weak from sitting up. He had to gather his strength to see Raz to strike a deal with him. He had just shy of twenty pounds. He could picket-pocket Lestrade, he carried mostly twenties; he wouldn’t miss two or three. Then there was Lestrade’s gran’s room. She had a coin collection, he could easily exchange the American coins and make roughly five pounds. The shirt, trousers, suitcase, violin, and walkman were going to be his big ticket items.

_550£. It will get me a third. 114 lines. It’s not nearly enough._

Sherlock bided his time, taking intermittent naps to pass the time. When Lestrade finally turned in for the night he made his daring escape.

* * *

Mycroft received the message about his brother’s arrest in telegram format on his desk early Monday morning. He let out a calm sigh and took his seat. He looked the document over three times; lifted the receiver of his phone and started making calls. It was best to nip these things in the bud before they became too overwhelming to handle.

He leaned back in his executive chair which gave a disdainful creak. It was a full-time occupation apologizing for the state of his brother; preventing his incarceration. Sherlock’s views of the legal system were most likely warped at this stage, with his elder brother interfering behind the scenes. He could only hope Sherlock wouldn’t develop homicidal tendencies, he still wasn’t sure if he’d let him get away with murder.

Mycroft looked over the paper a fourth time. Assault and battery charges, in which Sherlock was left the one worse for wear. No doubt the row was fuelled by drugs, wasn’t it always? He’d need the reports and drug test to confirm his suspicions. He’d have to fix up the guest bedroom, store the valuables in his safety deposit box, and contact their family physician.

He debated cancelling his plans for the day and meeting Sherlock in person. There were far too many calls to be made. He decided against it. Sherlock had been in a holding cell since Saturday and was likely irate with withdrawal.

His fax machine whirred to life. He rolled over to the accursed machine, withdrew the papers, threw away the cover sheet and looked over the lab results. He had to read it several times. He looked at the name again. He was struck with confusion.

Sherlock was clean, no traces of any controlled substances in his bloodwork. Mycroft’s jaw went slack. He realized his mouth was wide open when his personal assistant walked in with a manila folder. Mycroft clamped his jaw shut and took the file from her, rougher than neccessary. He scanned it over quickly.

“Re-order the labs, I want it done privately and get…” Mycroft looked over the report. “Inspector Tobias Gregson on the phone.”

_Heads will roll._

“Upgrade Sherlock Holmes’ surveillance status. Grade 3. Active,” Mycroft fought the urge to run a hand through his hair, “I want the name of the officer he’s living with on my desk, before the day’s end,” his PA looked at him in wide-eyed terror. Mycroft couldn’t quite remember her name. She was the third assistant he’d had since the start of the financial quarter. He had a feeling that she wouldn’t be the last.

“Never mind, have it faxed to my residence. Have the car at the ready. Cancel my meeting with the Swedish ambassador. Put Japan on hold,” his assistant remained frozen on the spot.

His reputation preceded him. He was the youngest man to ever hold his position and he was by far the best the Government had ever seen. He was allotted resources for family affairs and was all too often pulling strings for his younger brother. He knew it was an abuse of power but he was a force to be reckoned with.

He grabbed his coat and umbrella and was out the door before his PA could get her thoughts together.

Mycroft waited at the front desk of the Paddington Green Police Station. Two junior police officers escorted his brother and he knew immediately something was severely amiss. Sherlock’s t-shirt was torn at the collar, he was coughing fiercely, and his bottom lip was split and scabbed over. Most concerning was the way Sherlock was looking at him. He didn’t have his normal defiant gaze; rather there was a glint of something Mycroft could barely register in the boy’s eyes.

_Guilt?_


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft was the last person Sherlock wanted to see in his state. He’d lost everything. His violin, his shirt, his money, his pride, and quite possibly Lestrade as well. He felt tears start to well up. He wished they’d remove his hand-cuffs so he could hide his shame.

He hadn’t anticipated any of it. When he sold all of his possessions and returned to Baker Street, he’d planned to barter with Raz, only to find he’d sold out. His entire stock was gone, even his personal stash had been cleared. Sherlock was quick to grab Raz by the collar and press him up against the wall for information.

“Who? Give me a name!” Sherlock hissed. Raz laughed at how weak Sherlock was and easily shook him off. Sherlock threatened him with a razor blade he'd found on the floor and Raz laughed harder.

“Who gives a fuck if I give you a _name_? Ain’t gonna find him. City as big as this,” Raz laughed.

“The name!” Sherlock shouted. He grabbed Raz once more and coughed and sputtered in his face. He used his vice grip on Raz to keep himself upright.

“Aw, yuck,” Raz said wiping the droplets of spit off his face, “Fine… God… Just stop hacking on me, Jesus.”

“The name,” Sherlock panted.

“Moriarty.”

In under an hour, Sherlock had tracked down some Moriarty’s men in an alleyway, dividing up their spoils.

He found out quickly that a skinny little boy with a dull razor blade wasn’t much of a threat to a drug lord’s henchmen. They jumped him and beat him mercilessly until he was on the ground writhing in pain. The other men withdrew when they were certain Sherlock had learned his lesson. One particularly malicious man, however, stayed behind to deal with Sherlock personally.

Sherlock wanted to wipe his memory clear of the man but he needed to remember the man’s face and his laugh for future reference. His laugh was pure evil, it was low and cartoon like with a slight rasp from an untreated lung condition. He had grabbed Sherlock by the chin and spit in his face. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut when he saw the man palming himself. He distanced himself in his mind, taking away as much feeling as he could. He tried to go somewhere else mentally.

Police sirens brought him back to reality. The man nicked his wallet and landed one last punishing blow to his ribs, before escaping into the night.

Sherlock remained in police custody for the weekend. Raz had narked; he said Sherlock had pulled a blade on him and shoved him against a wall.

Sherlock didn’t bother using his phone call, though he knew he was being wrongfully detained. He wasn’t surprised to see his brother waiting for him on Monday morning.

After the officers removed his cuffs he walked obediently to the waiting car. He held his head down for the entire ride. He went straight up to his old room and fell on to the bed. He actively tried to erase his memories. After an hour he lifted his head and looked at the open door. Usually Mycroft shut him in his room for a good eight hours. Then again, these weren’t the usual circumstances.

He started scanning the room. His cricket bat was in the corner, fifty pounds. An antique picture frame on his dresser with a photo Mycroft and him all but scowling at the photographer, ten pounds. Books, twenty-five p a piece. The knobs on his dresser, silver… plated… worthless. He rolled over, let out a sigh, and looked up at the ceiling.

The down-comforter formed to his body like a glove yet he felt incredibly uncomfortable. He preferred the over-stuffed sofa. He had formed a liking for the mismatched elephants, the oversized telly, the dusty piano, but most of all, he preferred Lestrade’s company.

The man irrationally cared for Sherlock, babied him even. Mycroft wanted to care, that was evident, he just didn’t know how. Both men preached relentlessly, but at least Lestrade practiced what he preached.

_What else do I have to lose?_

Sherlock wheezed a cough. His throat and chest no longer crackled when he breathed but he wasn’t a hundred percent either. He stood before he got too comfortable. He looked at the clock on the wall.

_Almost noon, as good a time as any._

Sherlock rushed down the stairs without a sound and left the front door wide open as he left the house. Mycroft was likely having lunch and couldn’t be bothered. He’d spend the better half of an hour searching for what Sherlock had stolen. Sherlock smirked as he walked hurriedly down the winding side streets.

The search would likely drive him insane. Mycroft would never find what Sherlock had stolen because for the first time in a long time, Sherlock hadn’t stolen anything.

When Sherlock reached the house on Dollis Hill he was just as shocked to see Lestrade as he was to see him.

“You’re on my bed,” Sherlock shooed a flabbergasted Lestrade off the sofa.

“You… you’re back,” Lestrade was staring at him in disbelief.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a long drawl.

“But…”

“Do we have any bread?”

Lestrade cracked a smile and shook his head, “You had me worried sick,” he looked Sherlock over. “Where the hell-“

“Irrelevant. What matters is I’m back. May I stay?”

“Of course.”

A great wave of relief washed over him. He tried to conceal his elation. It would take the homeless network days if not weeks to track down this Moriarty fellow. In the meantime he needed a sure thing to stave off his boredom. He needed to redirect his focus.

* * *

Greg couldn’t fathom what brought on such a drastic change in Sherlock. Sherlock was usually skittish, refused to eat, and unreasonably snippy. Now he seemed excited to see Greg return from work. He went from sitting on the other side of the room to sharing the sofa when they watched telly. He even started eating two meals a day.

Greg was more than thrilled when Sherlock asked him how to play the piano. He didn’t have the heart to ask what happened to his violin. The busted lip, his torn shirt collar, his sudden mood change, it all suggested something terrible had happened. However, it all worked out in Greg’s favour so there was no reason to investigate quite yet.

They sat side by side on the piano bench. Greg placed his hands on the wooden keys that were in desperate need of repair. At the very least the piano was in tune. He played a few scales to warm up; then pulled out some sheet music. Sherlock squinted at it.

“Need some readers?” Greg inquired as Sherlock tilted his head, “You’ve seen sheet music before, right?” Sherlock nodded. “What’s the problem then?” Greg asked. Sherlock sheepishly ran his finger along a key, he tapped it gently, “Can’t read?” Sherlock stared at the keys and after a long moment of deliberation he nodded, “How in the hell do you play violin then?” Greg asked aghast. Sherlock blushed, “Sorry… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Greg let out a sigh. He turned towards Sherlock, straddling the bench, “You mean to say you can’t read sheet music and yet you can play the violin?”

“I experiment with it until it sounds right… ok?” Sherlock turned to get up. Greg put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place.

“That’s amazing,” Greg gave his shoulder a small squeeze, “But, wouldn’t it be easier if you learned to read?” Sherlock turned to look at him, “Come on, it’s easy,” he returned their focus to the piano.

Sherlock’s interest faded somewhere between bass and treble clef, likely at middle C. He looked eager to play. He started striking the keys while Greg tried explaining time signatures.

“Right, so the lower number is the note’s value, which repre-“ he swatted Sherlock’s hand that was poking the key in front of him, “Sherlock, are you listening?” Sherlock sighed and started running his fingers along the keys, forming a tune. Greg groaned and rolled his eyes, “I’m supposed to be teaching you how to play!”

“You’re doing a hell of a job, please _do_ continue,” Sherlock said sardonically. Sherlock ran his hand down the length of the keyboard and started into his version of _Rhapsody in Blue._

“Oh piss off, you little wanker,” he laughed. Sherlock elbowed Greg in the chest several times as his hands raced across the keys with fervor, “Never played piano, eh?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said with a smug grin, “I must say, it’s far easier than the violin,” Greg pressed Sherlock’s face away with the palm of his hand.

“Bastard,” Greg grinned, “Been hustling me, the whole afternoon.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough, I can teach you if you’d like,” Sherlock was on another one of Gershwin’s more famous pieces _Blue Monday_. The two pieces clashed together in a mash-up of nothing short of pure genius.

“Do you do that on purpose?”

“Do what on purpose?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, scooting ever closer until their hips were practically fused together.

“Mix up the pieces,” Greg said. Sherlock threw _Blue Moon_ into the mix and Greg started to laugh, “I'm sensing a theme here,” Greg pushed away Sherlock’s hands and started playing name that tune. Sherlock was surprisingly terrible at the game, “Blue Suede Shoes?” Sherlock looked at him blankly, “Elvis Presley? Nothing, huh?” Greg laughed and continued playing. Sherlock joined in for a four-handed rendition of _Rhapsody in Blue._

“Your father taught you to play,” Sherlock stated.

“Yep,” Greg finished with a flourish, “Wasn’t a fan at first, would’ve rather had a go at the guitar. Hard to lug around a studio piano to beach parties, you know?”

“Girls?”

“What about em?” Greg asked with a smile.

“It’s why you wanted to take up the guitar. To impress girls.”

“I’d swan-dive off a ten storey building on to solid concrete if I thought it’d grab a girl’s attention.”

Sherlock looked away sorrowfully, “I had a feeling,” he mumbled to himself.

“Well that was my younger days. Took me years of chasing tail, to find ladies prefer complete arseholes,” he laughed to himself, “Don’t matter how well you treat em, how nice you are, they always go running back to the jerk ex with the thousand piercings and skin tight jeans.”

“So you gave off the impression you were a bad boy, motorbike, slicked back hair, leathers.”

“Got a hold of my old photo album?”

Sherlock ignored the accusation, meaning it was true, “Why?” he turned to regard Greg and looked at him like he was a sick man.

Greg shrugged, “We all do stupid shit, looking for a shag.”

“ _We,”_ Sherlock sneered.

“The rest of the male population,” Lestrade added. Sherlock seemed offended, “Like you’ve never-“

“No,” Sherlock cut him off. He stood abruptly, “I’d never give off the impression I’m someone else to impress some… _girl,"_   The word seemed to leave a sour taste in Sherlock’s mouth.

“Nah, course not,” Greg pulled the fall down to cover the keys and gently wiped the dust off with the side of his hand.

“Not for a boy either,” Sherlock said with a huff. Greg bit his tongue.

_Never lied about myself to blokes either._

“Birds… they live in this delusional fantasy world. They think they can change a man. They see a rough guy n’ think they can mold him in their image, make him into a model citizen, you know?”

“Yes, I do know,” He said, looking pointedly at Greg.

“Y-you… you don’t believe I’m…” Greg let out an exaggerated, “No!” he saw Sherlock’s point but refused to believe it was true. “I’d never…” he let the sentence fall.

_It’s for your own good! Come on, I’m not trying to change who you are. Cocaine isn’t who you are. For fuck’s sake, you’re brilliant! Why can’t you see that?_

Greg stared forward, letting his thoughts overwhelm him. Before he could say a word, Sherlock stormed off.

_God, what did I say?_


	10. Chapter 10

There was nowhere else to go in the house, so Sherlock locked himself away in Lestrade’s gran’s former room. He threw the clothes off the bed and into a pile on the floor. His mind tormented him. It taunted him with thoughts from his past that he had long since deleted, but now were creeping back into his active consciousness.

He threw himself on to the bed and clutched his head tightly. Bitter tears stung his eyes and rolled down his smooth cheeks, his lower jaw quivered. He didn’t want to think about it, but his mind forced him to revisit his first ‘ _love’._

At age thirteen Sherlock was sent away to board at Harrow. His brother threatened him with bodily harm if he misbehaved.

“I have exhausted numerous resources getting you here. Now don’t _screw it up,”_   he hissed as he escorted Sherlock by his elbow to his new school. Sherlock stood scowling at his house, refusing to move an inch as his brother greeted the housemaster. They’d forgone the interview, Mycroft was well aware his brother had no interest in making a better life for himself.

He scored perfect scores across the board on his Eleven-plus exam, so it was no surprise the prestigious public school wanted to sink their claws in him and snatch him up before Eton had the chance. Sherlock regretted giving the examination a try, but he was a hopeless show-off, and Mycroft had only scored in the six-fifties when he was Sherlock’s age.

He was to follow in his brother’s foot-steps. They placed him in the same house, The Park, which his brother once boarded in. He was to play cricket, just like his brother. He was expected to excel in government and politics, be a master in modern languages, and revel in the classics.

Sherlock instantly abhorred the routine of boarding school. The day started with breakfast, which Sherlock dreaded. He’d take his food and stare at it until it was time to go to morning lessons. He ignored his teachers and stared off into space. They assigned him a seat: front row, centre, and he still managed to not pay attention. He’d drift off into the recesses of his mind and daydream constantly.

Lunch would roll around and Sherlock would wander the garden waiting for cricket practice to start up. He was a far more graceful lad than his counterparts and a bloody good cricket player. It caught the attention of several of his housemates. After procuring several wins for his house he was invited to dine with his teammates.

Supper came directly after late afternoon lessons and by then Sherlock was starving. Sherlock wasn’t a fan of meat, too much chewing. The vegetables were far too mushy, sulphuric, and bitter tasting. Unpalatable.

He stuck to breads and sweets. He missed day-school, his home in Kensington, and above all things, his mummy. Though, he wasn’t about to admit that to his savage schoolmates. He merely existed until he noticed one of his teammates noticing him.

The boy, Sebastian Wilkes, wasn’t anything spectacular. He mostly blended into the background. He had a rounded face, with a square jaw. He kept his hair parted to one side.

_Likely to take the attention off his pointed ears._

He had a charming grin.

_Grins rather than smiles, self-conscious about his crooked teeth._

He had very pronounced lines in his perioral region. Sherlock caught himself staring back at the boy.

_Yo-yoing weight problem._

Sherlock’s mind fired off the last thought and returned his attention to his food.

Sherlock was assured he wouldn’t receive any special treatment at the school but he’d managed to weasel his way out of sharing his room. The boys his age hated him for it, among other things.

Sherlock had the sort of friends that made him wonder _With friends like these, who needs enemies?_ They cackled in each other’s faces while Sherlock performed his ‘trick’, which involved telling them their life story. They thought it was hilarious until it was their turn to be deduced.

In a short time, he’d been tagged with the nickname _Freak_. He was uncomfortable around the other boys. He couldn’t tell friend from foe. He wanted to go back to being a wallflower. They’d constantly beg him to do his trick at breakfast.

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock said shying away, “I simply observe.”

“Do Sebastian!” the team’s captain shouted.

“Yeah!” the other boys piped in. Sherlock looked away and blushed. He grabbed his food and left promptly. He drew the line when it came to the boy who’d been secretly admiring him from afar. He couldn’t start on him, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Sebastian followed him about the grounds like a lost puppy, although he was a very popular boy and could be hanging out with just about anyone. Sherlock was getting odd feelings about the boy. He couldn’t quite understand it, but he actually _liked_ this boy stalking him.

What had him so fascinated? He’d called Sherlock a freak on several occasions; he laughed it up just like the rest of the boys. Sherlock was becoming nervous around him and a little excited as well.

They were paired together in chemistry. Sebastian was more rubbish at it than he was at cricket. Sherlock was beyond bored with the coursework so he decided to tutor him in private. None of it seemed to stick in the boy’s thick skull. Sherlock was overly frustrated with the boy’s progression.

“It’s simple kinetics! Concentrate Sebastian!” he shouted. They’d withdrawn to his private quarters for their weekly tutoring session. Sherlock slammed the book shut and threw it across the room, “I couldn’t care any less about _industrial_ chemistry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I know you couldn’t, that’s why you’re failing!” Sherlock shouted with a groan. He lay sprawled out on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Sebastian sat on the edge of the bed looking Sherlock over, from head to toe and back again. He licked and sucked in his bottom lip. He tentatively reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s ankle.

Sherlock jolted at Sebastian’s warm touch. It felt like a fireball had raced up his leg and warmed his lower abdomen. He jerked away and sat straight up. “W-what are y-you doing?” Sherlock stammered. He gulped as Sebastian moved closer.

“You ever have a girlfriend?” Sebastian asked leaning back on his hands. Sherlock shook his head, “Never kissed nobody, I take it?”

“Anybody,” Sherlock corrected. Sebastian looked away and smiled his crooked smile. He chuckled softly.

“Must be lonely,” he said with a grin.

_You have no idea._

Sebastian started leaning forward; Sherlock leaned back until he was trapped against the headboard. Sebastian curled his fingers around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and drew his lips close. Sherlock shut his eyes tight and pursed his lips. Their lips met for only a moment.

Sebastian pulled away, Sherlock cracked open one eye to see him smiling devilishly. Sebastian leaned in, open mouthed, and the kiss turned into a whelk-like glob. He grasped Sherlock’s neck tighter.  It felt more like an attempt at mouth-to-mouth resuscitation rather than a kiss.

Sherlock winced as he felt a tightening painful throb in his pants. It ached worse as Sebastian started trying to will Sherlock’s mouth open with his tongue. It was slimy and wet, there were slurping sounds, and Sherlock felt filthy, yet his prick was standing at full-attention. He’d never been so painfully horny.

There was a call for lights out and Sebastian pulled away. Sherlock covered up his obvious bulge with a pillow. Sebastian gathered his book and left Sherlock bewildered with slobber all over lips and a raging hard-on. Sherlock wiped his face in disgust.

_What the hell was that?_

He’d never been kissed before. It wasn’t what he was expecting at all. It was so _wet._ He was grossed out he’d had his first kiss with a boy.

He was aware that some boys engaged in mutual masturbation at Harrow. He’d even called a few of them out on it. Kissing though… it was a bit intimate.

Sherlock kept his head up the next few days and found many of the senior boys looked at him in a similar fashion. He was a pretty boy and the others fancied boys that looked like girls. Worst of all, he had no one to look after him at the school.

He had only the ghost of his brother in the hallow halls of Harrow to keep the teachers on his side. Fagging was abolished at the school ages ago, but some boys still practiced it in private. Sherlock heard horror stories at the breakfast table about who were the supposed fag masters and what they did to the younger boys.

A bunch of yearlings weren’t going to be much help if Sherlock got caught up in the wrong crowd. He stuck close to Sebastian and the other shells from the Park.

He kept meeting with Sebastian for his weekly tutoring. They received permission to work after lights out and filled the extra time with extensive snog sessions. Sherlock was growing fonder of the boy by the day. He looked forward to tutoring.

Kissing made him burn with desire. They were slowly becoming more intimate. Sherlock’s hands began to wander. First the shoulders, firm from cricketing. The flanks, slightly flabby from overindulging. Then there was his bum…

Sebastian pulled away. They were standing by the door, they had been slow dancing and the music cut out the precise moment Sherlock’s hands went to rest on Sebastian’s bottom.

Sherlock quickly withdrew his hands. He went to look down at the floor but noticed Sebastian tenting his trousers. Sherlock’s brain whirled. Sebastian saw him looking and Sherlock tried to brush it off as nothing.

Sebastian grabbed Sherlock firmly by his wrist and drew his hand in to cup his clothed erection. Sherlock made a strange hum-whimper and rose up on to tip-toe. He let go and Sherlock stumbled back and hit the door with a loud thud.

“D’you wanna see it?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t form the words. He stood, mouth agape, blinking rapidly. Sebastian undid his zip and Sherlock’s mind went blank.

His eyes narrowed in on Sebastian’s penis and he stared, completely stunned. His throat went dry and his stomach twisted in knots. When Sebastian spoke, Sherlock jumped, forgetting he was in the room.

“You can give it a feel, if you’d like.”

Yes, he’d like that very much. Sherlock reached out and brushed his finger tips along the silky smooth skin of his shaft, which elicited a moan deep from inside Sebastian’s chest.

Sherlock stroked softly, watching in amazement at the response he was receiving. Sebastian pulled away suddenly and stuffed himself in his pants, “I really should be going,” he said as he rushed out.

Sebastian quit attending their weekly study sessions and Sherlock found himself following the boy around the garden like he too was a lost puppy. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong or why Sebastian was suddenly so upset with him. The summer was rapidly approaching and Sherlock finally pulled him aside after cricket.

They were both clad in their flannels. Sebastian wasn’t listening to a word Sherlock was saying. His gaze combed over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock was positively dashing in his cricket whites. Sebastian convinced him to continue their conversation in private.

The moment the door closed, Sebastian was all over him. Sherlock wanted answers and he was only becoming increasingly more confused by Sebastian’s behaviour. He tugged Sherlock by the wrist and walked him over to stand beside the bed. He pressed on Sherlock’s shoulders until he knelt before him.

Sebastian undid his zip and fished out his cock. He waved it in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock turned away at the smell. They were both covered in sweat and Sebastian absolutely reeked of musk.

“Come on, give it a taste.”

Sherlock looked up at him in disgust, “What? No!” he shouted.

“It’s called a blow job.”

“I don’t care what it’s called! That’s foul!” Sebastian reached out to hold Sherlock’s chin in place, “I don’t want to.” Sherlock said childishly. Sebastian stroked Sherlock’s lips with his thumb.

“Come on; just put your mouth on it.”

He laced his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and eased him forward. Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced. His lips quivered as he opened his mouth.

Sebastian only had the head in when Sherlock started gagging from the taste and strong stench emanating from his moist loins. He tried to pull away but Sebastian had a good hold of the back of his head.

“Ah, watch the teeth,” Sebastian winced. Sherlock let out a whimper, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing, “Come on, suck it,” Sherlock complied, not that he had much of a say in the matter. Sebastian was humming with pleasure, “Don’t stop.”

Sherlock started sucking more avidly. He had become desensitized to the smell. The taste was still salty but the more he sucked the more it just tasted like skin. He strained to breathe and was afraid of choking. He grasped Sebastian’s thighs tightly to keep his distance.

Sebastian kept trying to force him deeper. Sebastian stilled and Sherlock felt his mouth fill with what at first he thought was an excessive amount of saliva. Sebastian withdrew from Sherlock’s mouth and panted heavily. Sherlock started spitting into the palm of his hand. It took a moment to register what he was holding in his hand.

He looked up at Sebastian in disgust.

“Sorry, got a bit excited,” Sebastian said with a laugh.

“I’ll say,” Sherlock grabbed an old sock and wiped off his hand. Sherlock stood and felt gross. He didn’t have the chance to shower or brush his teeth before his afternoon lessons. He sat beside Sebastian in chemistry, shifting uncomfortably, with the taste still heavy on his tongue. He worried everyone could smell it on his breath.

Sebastian came by, later that night, to apologise by feeling him up and snogging him senseless. Sherlock was beyond perplexed. He liked the way Sebastian made him feel, kissing and touching, but blow jobs were decidedly dreadful.

The summer vac was miserable. Sherlock missed Sebastian terribly. He’d forgotten about the weeks that the boy had ignored him for no apparent reason and focused on all the late nights alone with him in his room. He pined for him desperately.

His mummy was largely withdrawn. She had far too many galas to attend. Fortunately she rarely hosted parties over the summer. Most days Sherlock was too miserable to get out of bed.

Sherlock could never predict when Mycroft would be home, but when he was, he made his presence known.

One late summer’s afternoon, Sherlock was torn from his slumber when his door burst open and bright lights flooded his room. Mycroft tore open the curtains and opened the windows.

“My God! It smells like something’s died in here!” he remarked as he ripped the comforter off Sherlock and started folding it. “I’ll have the help fumigate later. It reeks of _teenager,_ ” he said with a cough, “When was the last time you bathed?” Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and curled into a tight ball, “No, no. Not today,” He pulled his brother off the bed with a hard yank, “You weigh nothing! Don’t they feed you at Harrow?” 

Sherlock growled as he was pulled to his feet. He wavered on his feet; his hair was a God awful mess, “You’re chipper,” He said with a grunt.

Mycroft slapped his hand onto Sherlock’s shoulder and clamped it tight, “It’s the crack of noon! Wake up! Greet the day, brother-mine,” he ushered his brother down the stairs and outside to the terrace, “Wallow in self-pity outside, you could use a tan,” Mycroft left Sherlock outside to air out.

Sherlock started pawing at the door like cat, “Mycroft,” he whined, “Let me in,” his head ached and he just wanted to sleep the rest of the summer away, “I’m in agony. Please.”

Mycroft opened the door to gaze at his brother’s pathetic appearance. Sherlock noticed him wringing his hands dry with a tea towel.

“You smell like an underarm. Who is he?”

Sherlock heart skipped a beat, “Who’s who?”

“The boy, the one you think you’re so _madly_ in love with?”

“How d’you know?” Sherlock asked with a squeak.

“You’ve been moping about the estate like a love sick puppy, and last I checked, Harrow is an all boys’ school.”

Sherlock walked in and fell into a seat at the breakfast table, “What do I do?” he asked miserably. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “You’re not in _love_ and neither is he,” Sherlock pouted his lower lip, his eyes threatened to start spilling tears, “It’s a passing fancy. These things _never_ last.”

“Did you ever-“

“No,” Mycroft said abruptly. Sherlock let his head drop into his arms.

“I don’t know what to do,” he cried.

“I could have him expelled, if you’d like,” Mycroft offered.

“No!” Sherlock shouted lifting his head.

“Senior boy?”

“He’s my year.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust, “I would have thought your _charming_ personality would have been enough to keep them at bay. I should have you room with another boy. Remove the temptation.”

“No, please,” Sherlock begged. “I _like_ him.”

“Sherlock, trust me. He doesn’t _like_ you in return.”

Sherlock hated Mycroft, truly hated him, when he was right. Sherlock returned to school in the fall only to be met with the cold shoulder again. He cornered Sebastian one day, hoping to re-spark their romance, only to be met with a dozen and a half derogatory terms.

“I-I’d give y-you a blow job,” Sherlock stuttered holding Sebastian by his shoulder.

“Gross, you freak. Get off!” he shook Sherlock away. Sherlock was trying not to make a scene in the stairwell, but Sebastian was making it difficult by drawing attention himself.

“I th-thought we were… b-boyfriends,” Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach.

“B-b-b-boyfriends,” Sebastian mocked. He started to burst out into laughter, “You think we’re boyfriends?”

Sherlock choked back tears.

“Why are you being like this?” Sherlock felt like his fingers had turned to ice. His vision was blurred from tears. He sniffled as Sebastian continued to cackle.

“God, what a _freak,_ ” he spat.

Sherlock’s expression suddenly turned and Sebastian turned a ghostly shade of white at the rapid change. Sherlock’s fist caught the base of Sebastian’s chin with a solid left hook; thus ending their love affair.

Sherlock was banished from the team’s table; he quickly dropped the sport all together. Sherlock set out to write nasty hate mail to his brother. He drafted at least six different letters and ended up pitching every last one of them. He was outraged.

His brother called one evening to badger him about finding a new activity.

_“What about orchestra? You’ve always wanted to learn violin.”_

“I refuse.”

 _“Drama? You seem to be very well versed in all things dramatic,”_ Sherlock merely growled into the phone, _“Another sport then, rugby?”_

“I hate _teams,_ ” Sherlock sneered.

_“Fencing?”_

“Fine!” Sherlock slammed the phone on to the hook and retreated to his room.

He was determined to get back at Sebastian Wilkes. Make him jealous. Part of Sherlock wanted to see him crawling back, begging to suck Sherlock’s dick instead.

He’d seen Victor Trevor around the garden, he was three years his senior, and was good with a sabre. He caught Sherlock’s eye with his devilishly good looks and bright blond hair. He towered over his classmates and had a brilliant laugh. He was Sherlock’s first crush and he sought to make him his.

Sherlock approached him about fencing and Victor was delighted to show off. Sherlock held back, using his left hand to parry. He stayed mostly on the defence and Victor began to notice.

“You know, you should probably use your dominant hand to fight,” Victor chuckled, “Just a suggestion,” he laughed as Sherlock switched hands. Victor quickly found himself disarmed, “Oh, shit.” he said holding his hands up, “Erm, you sure you need lessons?”

Sherlock let out a defeated sigh and threw his mask on the ground. He ruffled his hair and Victor gave him a look. Sherlock scowled and left the Fencing Salle.

Come Christmas, Sherlock was no closer to making Sebastian jealous than he was to finding the cure for cancer. He sulked in the parlour on Christmas Eve, with a glass of champagne in his hand. He was trapped with a bunch of children on babysitting duty.

He was quickly relieved of his duties when he announced to the lot of them that Santa wasn’t real which caused a moral outrage with their parents who had been keeping up the charade for years. Sherlock wandered the grounds and found the terrace light on. His brother and his good friend from Oxford were having a row. Sherlock hid to listen in.

Unfortunately he caught the end of the fight where Mycroft stormed off, leaving Harry on his own. Sherlock knew little of the man, other than he was an equerry. Sherlock emerged from the bushes and Harry held a hand over his chest, “Oh, dear God, you near frightened me to death… um…” he narrowed his eyes in at Sherlock. He clicked his tongue, “Oh, Sherwood, was it?” Sherlock went to open his mouth, “No, no. I’ll get it. Just you watch,” He held up a finger and tapped his chin in thought. “Seamus?” Sherlock cracked a smile and looked away, “No, not that either?” he laughed. He was incredibly charming and very sincere, unlike Sebastian.

“It’s Sherlock.”

“Ah yes, of course,” He brought a hand to his face to hide his embarrassment, “How could I have forgotten?” he dropped his hand from his face and crossed his arms, “My, how’ve you grown,” he said with a smirk, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a _very_ old friend.”

Sherlock nodded and let him escape. Sherlock kicked up dirt and let out several annoyed sighs as he roamed the bitter night with his hands shoved in his pockets. He waited until the party died down a bit before he retreated to his bedroom.

It was well past midnight when Sherlock heard a clatter. He sprang from his bed to see what was the matter. He swung open his door and a very drunk Harry stumbled in.

“Oh, I do apologise, I was just on my way to the loo,” he ended the sentence with a comedic slide-whistle inflection. Sherlock snorted a laugh as he tried to keep the man upright. He kept stumbling into him. Music from the party downstairs flooded the room, “May I have this dance?” Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at his swaying.

He fell forward and their lips met. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. He melted into the man’s kiss. It was unlike the whelk Sebastian’s embrace. Harry pulled away and Sherlock let out a whimper, “My, you taste like your brother.”

Sherlock’s brain had a short. He was left staring up at the man.

“Mycroft’s gay?” he asked innocently, his voice was near angelic in tone.

“Well don’t look so shocked!” Harry laughed. Sherlock looked at him doe-eyed. Harry brushed Sherlock’s hair back behind his ears and shushed him, “Would you like to know a secret?” Sherlock wasn’t sure he could handle any more surprises. “You are, by far, the prettier one,” Sherlock felt himself melt once more as Harry ran his hand across his cheek.

From then on, Sherlock anticipated holidays. He’d beg his mother to attend any soiree in which Harry would be in attendance. He was like a Harry-seeking missile at parties. He’d bide his time waiting for Mycroft and him to have a row, which occurred more often than not. Then he’d steal away with Harry and would revel in the attention.

He constantly praised Sherlock for his boyish beauty. He stroked Sherlock’s hair and held him close as they danced the night away in private. He loved being showered with affection. He was a brilliant kisser. He’d hum with pleasure against Sherlock’s lips; the sensation would make Sherlock’s toes curl.

The misfortune of having a love interest at home was the amount of time Sherlock spent away. He began dreading Harrow once more. He was terribly lonely. His heart ached for a man that wasn’t his.

He tried not to dwell on Harry’s other lover. The thought sickened him with jealousy, though Harry constantly assured him he was the better brother, Sherlock was still the alternative. Harry would much rather be in Mycroft’s company.

Sherlock decided if Harry could have him on the side, then Sherlock could have someone on the side as well. He carried on his chase of pretty boy, Victor Trevor. He resumed fencing and started passively flirting with the young man.

He kept his ears open for rumours about Victor, knowing full well that many carried a grain of truth. From what he gathered, Victor had been in former relationships with younger boys. He wasn’t exactly notorious, which was good. Sherlock wasn’t sure how fagging worked and what would be expected of him.

He wasn’t exactly pleased at how much servitude was required of him. At the very least he wasn’t being shared among the upperclassmen as the school tart. He set about doing menial tasks for Victor, picking up his work in the boarding house. He carried his books to his lessons, shined his shoes, and tidied his room.

Victor loved to show Sherlock off as his pretty fag. Other boys his year were exceptionally envious. Victor had been offered several trades for his coveted boy. Sherlock was beginning to regret even bothering with him in the first place.

He wanted a boyfriend, not a slave trader. The whole purpose of being part of the system was to become a fag master himself, when he was of age. He’d treat his loads better. They would love him unconditionally because he’d be kind and give them affection, rather than force them to perform tedious chores.

Sherlock pecked at the sole of his shoes as he sat on his floor. Victor was trying to covertly smoke out Sherlock’s bedroom window, only the wind had picked up, and the hideous stench came wafting back into his room, making everything reek of tobacco.

“Vic, can’t you do that elsewhere?” Sherlock whined.

“Now, now. You don’t want me getting in trouble, do you?”

Sherlock frowned and continued picking at the dried mud on his shoes, “It’s Saturday, can we _please_ do something?” Sherlock looked up at him sorrowfully. Victor drew in another long drag of his cigarette. This time he ignored the window completely and exhaled directly into Sherlock’s room.

“Like?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock grabbed the toe of his shoe and shrugged, staring the floor.

“I dunno,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I’m open to suggestions, you know,” he said with a mischevious smile. Sherlock looked up at him. The words seemed caught in his throat. He was too shy to ask for anything naughty: out loud.

An idea struck him and Sherlock bolted on to his feet. Victor watched him intently. Sherlock grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, he scribbled down the words nervously. He folded the paper neatly and walked over to Victor. He stuffed the paper into his hand and turned a deep shade of crimson, awaiting an answer.

Victor opened the piece of paper and looked at it curiously, “Touch me?” He read it out loud and Sherlock felt his stomach drop. Victor just laughed. Sherlock was on the verge of tears from embarrassment. Victor crumpled up the piece of paper and chucked it in the waste bin, “My room, eight o’clock, think you can make it?” Sherlock nodded silently. He waited until Victor left to wipe away his tears and let out a sigh of relief.

Later that night, Sherlock stealthily slid into Victor’s room unnoticed, “Right on time, have a seat,” Victor offered his bed. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed shaking with anticipation, “Close your eyes,” Sherlock stared at him for a moment before gently shutting his eyes. He shifted impatiently and let a nervous unsteady breath escape his nose.

He felt Victor’s hand firmly grasp his chin and lift it up. Sherlock moistened his lips. He felt something slick and greasy run along his bottom lip. His eyes fluttered open. He gave his lips a taste and made a face.

“Lip stick?” he asked incredulously. He looked at the tube of ruby red lipstick in Victor’s hand. He was staring fixedly into Sherlock’s eyes. He applied more to Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock began rubbing his lips together.

“Ah, ah. Like this., Victor smacked his lips together with a small popping sound. Sherlock mirrored him, “Here,” Victor folded up a piece of tissue to blot away the excess, “Smile.”

Sherlock ran his tongue along his incisors before he bared his teeth.

“Good,” Victor said looking him over, “Right, look up,” Sherlock tilted his chin up, “With your eyes,” Victor laughed and pulled his chin down.

He withdrew a pencil and brought it dangerously close to Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and held on to the bed sheets.

“Open.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked straight up. His eyes started to strain. He clutched on to the bed for support.

Victor finished the other eye and admired his handy-work. He smiled brightly, “So pretty,” he said with a sigh, “Want to see?” Sherlock shook his head. Victor gave him a stern look, “One more thing,” Sherlock prayed it wasn’t more make-up, he couldn’t handle having sharp instruments so close to his eye.

Victor reached under his bed and withdrew a shoe-box. Inside were several dirty magazines and photographs. Victor dug to the bottom and smiled, “Well, two more things,” he withdrew a red training bra and tossed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his thumb and forefinger over the soft padding. He looked down to see Victor had donned a wicked smile. He held on the tip of his forefinger, a pair of matching red lace panties. Sherlock took the undergarment and looked worriedly at Victor.

“Off you pop. Loo should be wide open this time of night,” he said pointing to the door.

“I can’t go out _there,_ ” Sherlock whispered.

“Put em on underneath. Then come straight back.”

“I’m wearing make-up!” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in concern. Victor didn’t seem bothered.

“You wanna do stuff, right?” he said pointing towards the door. Sherlock let out a soft whimper and headed straight for the door. He covered his face as he ran to the lavatory, hoping he wouldn’t run into anybody. He reached the loo without being caught. He locked the door behind him, checked the stalls, and started stripping.

He fumbled with getting the clasp undone on the bra. It was worse than a Hanayama puzzle. He gave up on trying to undo the hook and slid it over his head like a t-shirt. He slipped his arms through the straps and adjusted the bra to fit. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and looked at himself in shock.

He clenched his jaw and just stared. He could pass as a girl. He took a step back and shook the image out of his mind. He slid down his trousers and pants. He donned the red panties. They itched his crotch and were crawling up his ass. He shifted uncomfortably and put his trousers back on. He shrugged his shirt back over his shoulders and buttoned it down.

He noticed he’d smeared some lipstick on his collar. He let out a groan and slumped his shoulders. His brother was going to kill him for ruining another shirt. Sherlock laughed to himself.

_Maybe he’ll think a girl left it there._

Sherlock fought back a smile and did up the last of his buttons. He bundled his pants in his fist and ran straight back to Victor’s room. He locked the door and turned to see Victor was lounged out on his bed, with his hands behind his head. He lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Strip,” he said firmly. Sherlock started automatically undoing his buttons, “Slowly,” Victor snapped. Sherlock stopped and stared at Victor. He undid another button, more slowly, “Make it sexy.”

Sherlock looked around the room and knitted his brows. He made a face, “What?”

“Put on a show. Put a little wiggle in your hips, something, for God’s sake boy,” Sherlock blushed and waved side to side as he continued to unbutton his shirt, “That’s more like it.”

_This is stupid. I look stupid. Why am I doing this?_

Sherlock stripped the shirt off his shoulders and Victor smirked, “All right, you can hurry up with the trousers,” Sherlock dropped trou and stood in front of Victor in his underwear. He rubbed nervously at his upper-arm and shrugged up his shoulders.

Victor beckoned Sherlock over, he held his hand, and Sherlock felt a small flutter in his chest. Victor pulled Sherlock to straddle his thighs on the bed. He smiled up at Sherlock and ran a hand down his back.

“Such a pretty girl,” Victor said with a hum. Sherlock swallowed hard. Victor ran both hands down Sherlock’s flanks and set them to rest on his hips. He guided Sherlock’s hips into motion; Sherlock could feel Victor’s hard-on poke him between his cheeks. Sherlock jumped at the sensation. Victor held him firm and rubbed up against his lace panties.

Sherlock placed a hand against Victor’s chest. He continued to rock his hips into Victor’s clothed erection.

“Atta girl,” Victor reassured.

Victor reached down and unzipped his trousers. He slid them down to his knees and set Sherlock back down to rut up against him.

Sherlock could feel his hard length rubbing against his cleft. It sent shock waves through his system. It felt so strange. This wasn’t what he was expecting at all.

Victor released his cock from his boxers and before Sherlock had a chance to look at him fully, he was forcing Sherlock back down. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips tighter and thrust up against him. Sherlock felt a sharp stab against his hole. Victor almost achieved penetration through the lace panties. Sherlock let out a shocked gasp. Victor shut his eyes and rutted harder until he let out a strangled cry and raced to catch his breath.

Victor gave him a dopey grin. Sherlock dismounted and grabbed his clothes.

“Where’re you going?” Victor asked lifting up on to his elbows.

“My room, it’s late.”

He ripped off the panties and threw them at Victor along with the bra. He pulled his trousers on without pants and half-did up his shirt. He left gritting his teeth.

He slammed the door behind him and stormed off to his room. And who should he meet on his way? His old _friend_ Sebastian Wilkes. Sherlock scowled at him.

“ _Move,”_ Sherlock hissed. Sebastian looked at him a moment before bursting out into laughter.

“Is that? No!” he laughed pointing at Sherlock’s lips, “Wait til the lads get a load of this,” Sherlock clenched his fists and glared at Sebastian.

Sherlock grabbed both sides of Sebastian’s face and crushed their lips together. He pulled away to see Sebastian’s lips stained red and his eyes wide in fear. The corner of Sherlock’s lips tugged into a smirk, “G’night, Sebastian,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Sherlock decided his endeavours were better spent on a man who appreciated him as he was. Harry would never dress him up like a girl. Victor hadn’t even kissed him once! Sherlock broke it off with him the next morning, much to Victor’s dismay.

“Surely you can’t be serious!” Victor pleaded as they left the Fencing Salle.

“I am entirely serious,” Sherlock spun on his heels, “And don’t you dare call me Sherly.”

“I wasn’t!” Victor said defensively, “What’d I do?” he asked with a cry. Sherlock didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He rushed off to afternoon lessons and left Victor a wreck.

Sherlock only had Christmas to look forward to. He started a private correspondence with Harry via post. He kept his letters clean, in case they were intercepted. He spoke of dull things like lessons and sport. Sherlock had taken up squash as a last resort. He knew Harry played, which was partly the reason he decided to give it a go.

He was dreadful at racquet sports. Perhaps Harry could give him lessons. Sherlock grinned at the thought.

He daydreamed constantly of his lover. His soft embrace, his firm body, his smile. Sherlock found himself smiling unintentionally at meal times. He’d all but given up eating entirely. Bread and water got him through the day. He withdrew entirely into his mind.

He received a letter from Harry a few hours before he was set to leave for the country-side estate. Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I’m afraid I won’t be attending this year’s festivities._

_It appears your brother and I have had our final row._

_My sincerest apologies,_

_H. H._

Sherlock’s head began to spin. He sat on his suitcase. He wanted to tear Mycroft limb from limb.

The entire drive to the estate left Sherlock writhing with anger. He burst through the front doors and ignored his mother completely as he climbed the stairs.

“Sherly, dear!” she shouted. He stopped at the top step, clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists. He shook with anger.

“Sherlock!” He shouted, “My name is Sherlock, mother!” he slammed his fist on the banister. The sudden outburst sent her into a fit of tears. Sherlock retreated to his hiding space before he could catch a glimpse of Mycroft’s face.

Sherlock crawled into the crawl space and folded his knees against his chin. He was just barely able to fit. His ears pulsated with blood from his racing heart. He wanted to kill his brother for what he’d done but at the same time he didn’t want Mycroft to find him. He wasn’t sure what Mycroft would do to him for lashing out at his mummy like that.

He heard Mycroft pounding at his door down the hall. Sherlock drew his knees in closer and rocked back and forth.

Sherlock fell asleep curled up in the tiny crawl space. After a few hours of silence he yawned and checked to see if the coast was clear. He saw his brother’s leather loafers pacing the hallway. Sherlock groaned in discontent.

He jolted at the sound of Mycroft’s shoe hitting the grate, “Sherlock, I know you’re in there. Come out, this instant.”

“No!” Sherlock shouted with a laugh, “Are you mad? You’ll beat me!”

“When have I ever... Sherlock Holmes! Get out of there.”

“Why should I?”

“I’m the man of the house and I say-“

“Ooh! Scary, the _man_ of the house,” Sherlock mocked. Mycroft pursed his lips and tapped the grate once more with his foot.

“Don’t make me come in there.”

“You won’t fit,” Sherlock snorted.

“1... 2...”

“When has that ever worked on me?”

Mycroft pulled the grate off and threw it off to the side. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s ankle and Sherlock started screaming and kicking.

“Sherlock. Would. You. Grow. Up!” Mycroft stammered.

“Never!” Sherlock shouted. Mycroft reached his arm back to grab at Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock sunk his teeth into Mycroft’s arm and Mycroft let out a loud yelp. He rubbed his forearm and retreated momentarily. Just when Sherlock thought he’d won, he saw the dry-wall dent in next to his head.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shrieked scrambling out of the crawl space. Mycroft held Sherlock’s cricket bat in his hands, he had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and was panting savagely.

“You could have killed me!” Sherlock said looking at the sizeable dent in the wall.

“Well,” Mycroft said through heavy breaths, “It was either that or smoke you out.”

Sherlock let out a shocked gasp of realisation, “I’m telling,” he said with bright eyes. He ran down the stairs at full speed, skipping over the last three with his brother fast on his heels, cricket bat still in hand.

“Mummy!” Sherlock shouted gleefully. He took a sharp turn into the library. Sherlock hit the brakes and skidded across the polished wooden floors with a loud screech, “Mummy you will not believe what Mycroft did!” Sherlock panted. Mycroft raced into the room, grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of his neck, yanked him up on to his toes, and gripped the cricket bat tightly.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft looked at the two women seated in the library in absolute horror.

Sherlock smiled brightly, “Oh, hi grandmother-dear, I didn’t see you there.”

Mycroft dropped the bat, which crashed to the floor loudly, “I... I... I...” he stammered. Sherlock grinned smugly.

Mycroft spent the days leading up to Christmas locked away in his room while Sherlock thought up a thousand different ways to get to Harry. He mulled over his top one hundred, narrowed it down to ten, and then did away with all of them.

Then his brain hatched a brilliant plan. He’d write a letter to Harry, posing as Mycroft, he’d set up a rendezvous. Then when Mycroft failed to show, Sherlock would be there waiting. All he needed were a few samples of Mycroft’s handwriting, his stationary, and a proper location. Far enough away from the estate, so as not to raise any attention, but still within walking distance.

They could meet in the woodland. How romantic. Sherlock could happen to be taking a stroll in the woods only to find a heart broken Harry in desperate need of mending. He knew it would work, it had to work.

Sherlock snuck into Mycroft’s room late one night, stole one of his fountain pens and a few sheets of paper. He found Mycroft’s planner and made a hasty retreat.

He stayed up all night drafting up several copies, getting the penmanship just right. Sherlock admired his handy-work. If all else failed, he had a promising career in forgery.  He sent off the letter and nervously awaited a response.

He intercepted the mail each morning. With each passing day he became more and more disheartened. On the set date, Sherlock took to strolling the woodlands in hopeless desperation.

Sherlock had his head down; he was kicking at a pebble across the frosted ground. He was bundled up in a scarf and coat. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started sulking.

“Looking for someone?” Sherlock near jumped out of his skin and turned pale white. Sherlock froze, “Nice try, Sherlock.” Mycroft held the envelope up and waved it in front of Sherlock.

“You... you... That’s a criminal offence!”

“Do you mind explaining what this is about?” Mycroft crossed his arms and regarded Sherlock haughtily, “You have no right contacting my friends on my behalf,” he furrowed his brows, “What could have possibly been going through your mind?” Sherlock met Mycroft’s gaze defiantly, “Must you always be so histrionic?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I don’t want you trying to make contact with Harry again, do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock turned on his heels and left Mycroft without an answer.

Sherlock went straight to his mummy, “The Havills are family friends, are they not?”

His mother looked up at Sherlock in stupor, “Of course, dear. Wh-“

“Then why aren’t they invited to this year’s Christmas gala?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

Sherlock grinned maliciously, “Precisely.”

He brought it to his mother’s attention that Mycroft neglected to extend an invitation to some of his mother’s dearest and oldest of friends. Sherlock assured her that it was likely he’d just forgotten, seeing as he was overworked, and that it was best not to bring it up with him. His mother nodded in agreement and hand-wrote personal invitations to the Havills, including Harry.

On Christmas Eve Sherlock dressed in his best suit, sans tie, and greeted each guest at the door. He turned on his charm and even doled out a few over-due hugs. It was getting late and guests started filing in slower. Sherlock began to fear the worst.

Sherlock gave up his post the moment he clapped his eyes on Harry. Harry had already had a fair amount to drink and was walking up the walkway unevenly. Sherlock caught him by the hand and led him around the back.

“What took you so long?” Sherlock asked pulling him through the bushes.

“I was debating whether or not to make an appearance.”

“What made you decide to come?” Sherlock turned to look at Harry.

“You.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand tighter and felt his heart lift. He practically dragged Harry up to his bedroom.

He slammed the door shut and locked it. He lunged at Harry, causing him to stumble backwards.

Harry was his, he came back for him. Sherlock dropped to his knees and started pulling at Harry’s belt. Harry was shocked beyond words. Sherlock methodically undid the zip and started shimmying his trousers down his waist.

Sherlock hooked his fingers into Harry’s waistband and pulled his pants down. He was relieved to find his length was a good deal shorter than Sebastian’s. His smell was absolutely intoxicating. The man must have never sweated a drop in his life. He smelled distinctly of lavender and rosemary.

Sherlock gave him a tentative stroke and took in a deep breath. Harry started to harden in his hand. Sherlock looked up to see he had his head thrown back and was moaning with delight. Sherlock placed his lips to the tip of his penis.

He suddenly worried that he wouldn’t be good enough. All he remembered was ‘no teeth’. He brought him into his mouth and was pleasantly surprised at how clean the man was. The taste hardly bothered him at all.

Harry ran his hands sensually through Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock practically purred at the sensation. His own prick started to ache and Sherlock sucked Harry down fully, his nose pressed against Harry’s pubic hair. He withdrew, running his tongue up the length, and let the head slide out of his mouth with a pop.

“My,” Harry said with a whimper. Sherlock looked up at him and continued to stroke him softly, “My, My, My,” He whispered. His toes began to curl and Sherlock sat back on his heels, “My... croft...” he said with a pathetic whine. Sherlock stopped when he noticed the fully grown man was crying at his touch.

“Why?” he asked looking down at Sherlock. His bottom lip quivered and tears streamed readily down his face, “Why can’t he love _me_?” he looked up at the ceiling with misty eyes.

“I love you,” Sherlock said timidly.  

Harry looked down at him with a sympathetic gaze. He stroked Sherlock’s chin, “Oh, of course you do, my boy,” he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and helped him up. He drew Sherlock in for a crushing embrace. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close. He buried his face into Sherlock’s neck and drew in a deep breath.

Sherlock’s heart pounded nervously as Harry started nuzzling into his neck, sucking along the base. He had Sherlock trapped in a vice grip. He started walking Sherlock backwards until the back of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of his bed.

He stumbled and fell back with Harry on top of him. The man was quite a deal larger than Sherlock, his weight crushed against him, making it difficult to breathe. He caught Sherlock’s lips in his own and kissed him more adamantly.

Sherlock let out a shocked gasp when he felt Harry’s fingertips graze his zip. He pulled it down firmly and ripped Sherlock’s trousers off in one fell swoop. Sherlock’s hands shook as he hooked them around Harry’s neck and sunk in a kiss. Harry started groping him through his pants and Sherlock bucked up against his palm intuitively.

Harry quickly slid down his pants and pulled away. Sherlock looked at Harry, his cheeks were flushed, his hair was dishevelled, and he was looking quite debauched. Sherlock sat propped up on his elbows with his pants and trousers around his ankles looking wide-eyed in anticipation.

Harry grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled at him. Sherlock shrugged his hand off. Harry grabbed him more firmly and started trying to get Sherlock to twist at his torso.

“No,” Sherlock said struggling away from Harry’s grip. Harry used his weight advantage to flip Sherlock on to his stomach. He pressed down firmly on Sherlock’s back with both hands. Sherlock kicked and screamed, landing a few good blows on Harry’s shins, but Harry pressed on.

“Let me love you,” Harry said clenching his teeth. Sherlock was certain that Harry was too far gone to notice who he was talking to. Sherlock’s face was pressed into the bed-sheets, muffling his cries.

“I’m not Mycroft,” he cried, “I’m not Mycroft.”

He breeched, Sherlock screamed, and the door came crashing open with a splintering crack. Sherlock threw his hands over his head and buried his face in the mattress, and closed his eyes tight.

There was shrill shrieks, begging, and sobbing tears. Sherlock clamped his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth.

He heard his brother’s high pitched cry, “He’s just a baby!” he screamed. There was a strangled cry as Harry was dragged from the room. Then Sherlock felt a shocked jolt as he heard a loud thud, like a sack of potatoes had been thrown down the stairs.

Sherlock drew up his trousers and ran for his door. He slammed it shut but it bounced back open, the door handle had been bashed in with brute force. Sherlock pressed his back against the door and slid down to the floor.

Downstairs, women and children started screaming. He heard his mother cry out, “Stop it! You’re killing him!”

Sherlock clamped his hands over his ears once more. He rocked back and forth. His breath shuddering through tearless sobs.

Sherlock lay cold on the late woman’s mattress. He was brought back to reality when he heard Lestrade’s knocking at the door. He noticed he’d been crying on to the pillowcase. His disturbing memories haunted him. He pushed them away and sucked in a deep breath.

“Sherlock, come on out. I’m sorry,” Lestrade said through the door, “I made toast!” Sherlock turned his back to the door, “With cinnamon!” he shouted. He gave the door several pounding policeman knocks, “Right, I’m leaving it at the door!” Sherlock heard Lestrade’s heavy footsteps march away from the door, then come creeping back quietly.

“I know you’re still there!” Sherlock shouted. Lestrade’s laugh boomed and echoed throughout the hall. Sherlock fought to bite back a smile and drew the pillow over his head.

_So which will Lestrade be? The closet gay? The covert kink? Or will he use me as a substitute for his heart’s true desire?_


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft was clad solely in his dressing gown, reading over the intell with a scowl.

_Not again._

He groaned, rubbing his forehead. He looked at the name and date of birth, “Constable... constable...” he shook his head. Across the table there was a small screech of chair legs skidding across the tile floor as his latest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Mycroft drew in a long drag of his cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray.

His attention was drawn away from the papers momentarily when he caught a flicker of worry cross the man’s face. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked down once more.

“Where did the man come from?”

“Originally?” the man gulped back his fear.

“No,” Mycroft said with a long drawl.

_Are all policemen this... idiotic?_

“I mean before he joined the Metropolitan Police.”

“Um... not sure... He didn’t... doesn’t talk about it.”

Mycroft normally revelled in breaking a self-confident man, making him stutter and quake in fear in his presence, but this one was becoming bothersome. Tobias Gregson was the epitome of arrogant, but he proved to be easily conquered.

He was a terrible mess in bed, but Mycroft needed information on his colleague. Sometimes even Mycroft had to perform a little legwork to gather intelligence.

“He’s far too old to be a constable, don’t you believe?”

“Um... he did have some former military service... I’m pretty sure,” Gregson said uncertainly. When Mycroft looked up at him, Gregson shook like a small dog.

“Gulf War?” Mycroft inquired.

“Mm... I’m pretty sure... he wasn’t on the frontlines.”

Mycroft ran the stack of papers through his hands, thumbing through them rapidly, until he caught a flash of an insignia. He cocked an eyebrow.

“Corps of Army Music...” he looked at it oddly. He titled his head to one side, “Mounted Cavalry... cornet...” he let the papers drop with a thud and started scrubbing his face with his hands. He dragged his fingertips down his face slowly, noticing Gregson staring at him, “You are dismissed. Feel free to leave at any time,” he said straightening up. He idly ran his thumb through the stack of papers, knowing full well there was nothing in there that would be of any use.

He was missing a decade of data for a Gregory Lestrade. The man completely vanished off the grid between 1978 and 1988. No employment records, no record of him leaving the country, nothing.

Mycroft opened up the envelope containing a few black and white two by threes. The man was strikingly handsome, Mycroft gave him that. A bit rough around the edges but with gentle eyes.

_Good set of teeth, strong jaw line, very expressive face._

Mycroft looked back at the papers and found the title to his motorbike. He let out a snort.

_A BSA A75R Rocket Three. Sherlock would never be caught dead on the back of one of those._

He chuckled softly.

_The man has been riding longer than Sherlock has been alive!_

Mycroft held a photograph of Gregory Lestrade on the back of his motorcycle. He was grinning cheerfully, his hair was tousled and spiked up intentionally. He looked like a baby. Mycroft ran his thumb over the date printed in the lower right hand corner.

_June of 1976, Sherlock was not yet born, making Gregory Lestrade thirteen years of age. What happened to this young man that made him disappear off the face of this planet for ten years?_

“Still here?” he asked Gregson. He looked up to see the man had his hands clamped between his thighs, waiting patiently. Mycroft raised both his eyebrows and blinked slowly.

_This is the last time I let one spend the night. I don’t have the time or energy to entertain._

Mycroft looked at his brother’s latest. He picked through more recent photographs. He wasn’t about to set back and watch this one. Mycroft had let far too much pass under his radar.

Sherlock ran away from Harrow at sixteen. It didn’t come as a surprise to Mycroft that his brother became a vagrant. Unfortunately, he was a very slippery fellow and could disappear for months on end. When he didn’t want to be found Sherlock became a ghost in London’s hustle and bustle.

After Sherlock disappeared the first time, he knew it would only a matter of time before Sherlock found drugs. He had an addictive personality. He craved attention from an early age, and had several vices. He was an avid thumb-sucker and his mummy was far too lenient.

His father was an absolute tiger when it came to discipline. He roared with anger at Sherlock. He found him most infuriating. His father’s eyes glowed yellow when he was outraged. He had the same heterochromia iridum as Sherlock. His eye colour seemed to be ever changing.  

His father had far more gold in his eyes, giving him an ominous appearance; whereas Sherlock only had small flecks of gold scattering his iris which gave his eyes more of a twinkling appearance. Sherlock’s deep voice and scowl came from his father as well.

His father would swat at Sherlock’s hand, forcing the boy’s thumb out of his mouth. Sherlock would give him a defiant glare and stick it right back in.

Mycroft was by far a calmer disciplinarian. He took charge of Sherlock’s upbringing after his father left and kept his feet firmly planted on the ground while Sherlock seemed to float off into space. He was a no nonsense sort, he had to be with Sherlock.

The worst mistake he ever made was letting Sherlock go. Harrow changed him completely. He couldn’t recognize the boy who had once dreamed of being a pirate and sending his brother off to Never Neverland by shaking down a dead fairy for her pixie dust.

It was too late to save Sherlock, though he tried tirelessly. He’d once beaten a dear friend of his to a bloody pulp after he’d laid his hands on his brother and he wasn’t against to doing it all over again.

Sherlock was a constant reminder that Mycroft had a human heart. The man was made of ice otherwise. Cold, calculating, and manipulating. He played it off as if he was annoyed that Sherlock was stunting his growing career with his antics. When, in truth, he was deeply worried that his brother was slipping away from him. It would only be a matter of time before he was irretrievable.

Mycroft couldn’t even rest assured Sherlock would come running to him for help anymore. He was secretly relieved when Sherlock would turn up at his doorstep. Sometimes he’d be strung out, babbling incoherently, in a panic. Other times he’d come to Mycroft battered and defeated, in need of a place to sleep.

The last man Sherlock shared a house with was too much for Mycroft to bear. Mycroft’s heart felt like it was being torn out of his chest as he watched his brother rock back in forth in agony on his doorstep, cradling his head in his hands. He was screaming like a small child, saying his head hurt so badly. His wrists were covered in small circular bruises left from fingertips.

Sherlock couldn’t remember how he’d made it to the terraced house. After calming down, all he wanted to do was sleep.

After his concussion, Sherlock was shell shocked for days. Mycroft feared it would become permanent and that he’d suffered irreversible brain damage. He woke early one morning to find Sherlock had run away and taken with him his silver pocket watch.

Gregory was a police officer but that meant nothing to Mycroft. Corruption ran rampant in the Met. The age difference was most concerning for Mycroft. Older men overpowered Sherlock, he was weak willed, and didn’t know how to fight back. When anyone showed him the least bit of affection he clung on to them for dear life. He had been far too trusting in the past.

Mycroft slammed his hand down on to the stack of papers and Gregson jumped. It was decided, Gregory Lestrade was far too old for his brother. Added with his enigmatic background, he was far from trustworthy. Sure he was keeping Sherlock clean, but at what cost?

Mycroft stood suddenly and stripped of his dressing gown, “I’m off to bed,” he waltzed away, “Coming?”


	12. Chapter 12

“No!” Sherlock shouted clinging on to the door with both hands.

“You’re going and that’s final!”

“I’m not going! You can’t make me!”

“Wanna bet?” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by his flanks and started lifting him. Sherlock clung on to the door's jam by his fingertips. They were quite a sight to behold that early Sunday morning, “Let go,” Lestrade hissed. Sherlock pulled with surprising strength for such a skinny boy.

“I don’t want to!”

“I don’t care what you _want._ You have to!”

“Who says?”

“The court!” Lestrade gave a final yank and Sherlock was dislodged from the door jam. He carried Sherlock, kicking and squirming, to the bike.

“I can walk you know!”

“Yeah, you can also run. I’m not taking any chances,” he seated Sherlock on the back of the bike.

Sherlock threw his head back and started to whine, “This is so... so... It’s schadenfreude, that’s what this is,” Lestrade stopped a moment, “Morose delectation...” Sherlock offered, “She _is_ a church going woman, isn’t she?”

“No,” Lestrade slid Sherlock’s helmet firmly onto his head and buckled the chin strap.

“Door’s open,” Sherlock said crossing his arms. Lestrade looked at the open door and pursed his lips.

“S’nothing good in there anyhow,” he straddled the bike and kick started the engine. Sherlock groaned and wrapped his arms around Lestrade tightly. They peeled out going Mach 5 (i.e. 30mph). Sherlock dug his fingers into Lestrade’s chest, his breath shuddered and his legs shook in terror.

It was the longest fifteen minutes of Sherlock’s life. The moment they pulled up to 221-B he fell off the bike and stumbled on to the pavement, landing firmly on his bottom.

“I’d rather ride the tube!” Sherlock shouted as if the alternative was the worst imaginable torture possible, which it very well might be. He ripped his helmet off and threw it on the ground.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Lestrade shouted picking up the helmet, “Look, you’ve gone and scuffed it,” Sherlock crossed his arms and glared up at Lestrade, “Right, that’s it,” He pulled Sherlock up by his elbow, “You could be picking up rubbish on the side of the motorway! I got you a good deal here, now be grateful, _for once_.”

“This is so unnecessary!”

“Hey, I’m just following court orders. You’re doing 250 hours of community service, like it or not!”

“250! _250!_ I didn’t even _do_ anything!”

Lestrade pulled out the documents from the saddlebag. He cleared his throat and Sherlock let out a groan, “Handling of stolen goods, forgery, false accounting, custody of a false instrument, breach of restraining order, public intoxication, indecent exposure... Sherlock, Jesus Christ,” Lestrade kept reading, “Urinating in public, loitering, making threats to destroy or damage property... And all in one night... Sherlock you’re really something. This could have been worse, far worse. You're lucky you're not a registered sex offender cos of this,” He shoved the papers back in the bag angrily, “Get in there,” he snapped and pointed to the front door.

Sherlock walked slowly, dragging his feet. He scowled at the ground. Lestrade pounded on the door.

“God, can’t you knock like a normal person? You’ll give the old bat a heart attack!” Sherlock shouted, glaring at Lestrade.

“Sorry... force of habit,” Lestrade rapped on the door more gently. There was the sound of locks tumbling and turning.

_Single cylinder dead bolt, five pin lock, oh how cute, a hook and eye latch. The woman is just begging for a burglary._

The woman opened the door and greeted the boys with a broad smile, “Come in, come in! My isn't it cold?” she said with a sweet and excited voice. She turned and started toddling to her flat.

Sherlock pressed his thumb against the doorknob’s latch, pushing it in several times and letting it go, making an annoying clicking sound.

_Worn from use. Original to the building._

Lestrade slapped Sherlock’s hand, “Quit it.” he hissed. He escorted Sherlock in, “Now I’ll be back round six. I want a full report on Sherlock’s behaviour. N’ don’t you dare go easy on him. Boy needs to learn a lesson!” Lestrade shouted through the hollow halls. He brought Sherlock through to the old woman’s kitchen and gave him a not so gentle shove through the threshold.

“Not to worry, officer. He’ll be workin’ his fingers to the bone. He won’t have time to catch a breath, let alone be any trouble,” She let out a light giggle and extended an arm to guide Sherlock by the shoulder into her parlour, “Isn’t that right, Sherlock?” she said ‘Sherlock’ so affectionately it made Sherlock worry. She was very motherly. Lestrade gave him a look before he left for work.

She was a great deal shorter than Sherlock and had a thin frail frame. Her hip obvious gave her trouble from the way she waddled rather than walked. She lived alone.

_No children of her own. She’d have their photographs plastering the walls if she had any. She seems the type. A nanny in her former life? Owns the building... possibly several others... a slumlord then. Mrs Hudson... Mrs_

“Where’s Mr Hudson?” Sherlock asked placing his hands behind his back. He started strolling the flat in search of anything _interesting._

“Dead.”

“I take it any form of condolences are unwarranted,” Sherlock said running his finger along the patina of dust on the mantel place.

Mrs Hudson chuckled, “He was not the nicest man.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed. He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at her framed photographs lining the walls, “Been widowed for a while. Small... ish family. Sister... don’t see her much by the looks of it. No kids of her own as well. Genetic defect?” Sherlock asked turning to regard Mrs Hudson. His eyebrows lifted with sincerity.

“Narrow hips,” she said patting her hips pointedly.

“Mm,” he nodded in understanding, “Adoption never crossed your mind?”

“Was a nanny once.”

“I knew it,” Sherlock said with a smug grin, “Is this how you get your fix? Taking in delinquents?”

“You’re the first,” She said with a soft grin and a twinkle in her eyes.

Sherlock let out a sigh, “Hopefully your last, as well,” He pursed his lips in thought, “You really should look into getting the front door replaced. If I threw my shoulder into it I could easily break in.”

“Oh, is that so?” She asked concerned.

“I’ll show you,” Sherlock made a motion for the door.

“No, no. S’alright. I trust you.”

“You really shouldn’t,” Sherlock looked at her sorrowfully.

“Your heart is in the right place, I can tell. Just needs a little direction.”

Mrs Hudson’s idea of manual labour was hardly arduous. Sherlock was put to work holding her knitting yarn while she prattled on about non-sequitur things. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to let his mind wander, as he was constantly asked for his input. He had to listen intently to wrap his mind around what the woman was saying.

He offered to do other things around the flat, but she insisted he stayed still and listened to a lonely old woman’s chatter. She seemed to like the sound of her own voice. She was filled with endless amounts of stories, some interesting, most not.

Lunch was an interesting encounter. Sherlock was very particular about what he would and wouldn’t eat. More times than not, he wouldn’t eat anything at all.

“You’re as thin as a rail, Sherlock,” she pushed his plate closer to him, as if proximity was the issue. Sherlock’s eyes were desperately pleading Mrs Hudson to not make him eat the sandwich she put before him, “It’s prawn,” she said as if it should be appealing.

“I don’t eat meat,” Sherlock pushed the plate away. She gave him a look. Sherlock pouted his lower lip. Her look turned ever more stern. Sherlock crinkled his brow and made his lip quiver ever so slightly. She crossed her arms. Sherlock worked up some misty eyes.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Sherlock looked down at his plate and pouted at the sandwich instead.

He placed an elbow on the table, put his head in his hand, and took a large bite, stuffing his mouth, “’Appy?” he asked through a mouth full of food.

“Elbows off the table, n’ chew your food ‘fore you speak, then yes. Very 'appy,” she patted Sherlock’s shoulder as she went to put the kettle on. While her back was turned, Sherlock moved the food to the front of his mouth and brought his hand to his face, “Don’t you even _think_ about it, young man!” she shouted with her back still turned.

Sherlock scowled and forced the putrid food to the back of his throat. He made a face and spit out his tongue. He shook his head and grimaced.

_Yuck._

After endless amounts of crap telly and mindless chatter, Sherlock watched the clock anxiously. It was a quarter past six.

_Where is he?_

There seemed to be a disturbance in the space time continuum, as Sherlock stared at the clock’s hands, time appeared to be moving agonizingly slower. Mrs Hudson was making a roast for dinner and had invited Sherlock to stay. Sherlock wanted to escape this unique form of torture with his dignaty in tact. He was tempted to grab the clock off the wall and shake it violently.

There was a loud knock at the front door. Sherlock couldn’t conceal his excitement. He rushed to answer. He threw open the door and near threw himself at the constable.

“Oh dear God, get me out of here!” he said trying to escape. Lestrade pushed him back.

“Report first.” he turned Sherlock around by the shoulders and gave his back a small nudge.

“Aw,” Sherlock whined and marched forward like an obedient little soldier. They re-entered the flat and Lestrade removed his cap and smoothed out his hair.

“How was he, Mrs H?”

“An absolute angel. Now, I insist you stay for supper. I’ve made far too much for just myself.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a pleading look. Lestrade gave him a small grin. Sherlock looked hopeful. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and guided him into a chair, “Sherlock and I’d be glad to stay for dinner," Sherlock let out a loud groan of detest and Lestrade chuckled maliciously.

After Sherlock was forced into eating another meal he was free once more.

“Those last two hours better have counted towards my community service. We _really_ didn’t have to stay for tea,” Sherlock sneered. He started walking up Baker Street.

“Where’re you going? Bike’s parked right ‘cross the street.”

“I’m taking the tube!” Sherlock shouted stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“You don’t have any money!” Lestrade shouted back.

“Hasn’t stopped me before!” Sherlock kept storming off. Lestrade chased him down and grabbed him by the elbow, “Don’t touch me,” Sherlock shook his hand off. Lestrade gave him a look.

“You ready to talk?” Lestrade said giving him a sympathetic look.

“No,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“Look... I’m not angry... well at least not _as_ angry,” Lestrade hung his head in guilt, “Sorry for shouting at you... I was just... upset, is all.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock acknowledged, looking at the ground as well.

In a stroke of genius and a fit of jealously, the other night, Sherlock had sought out the company of Molly Hooper. He’d forgotten about the restraining order that her father had put on him. Sherlock nicked a bottle of cheap rum from Lestrade’s cabinets, it tasted like acetone and smelled like ammoniated cat piss.

He adopted a machismo attitude and sauntered to the street Molly once lived on and, much to his relief, found she still visited her parents on the weekends.

He threw pebbles at her window until she turned the light on and stuck her head out.

“Sherlock... wh-“

“Marry me,” Sherlock stumbled on solid ground.

“What?” she laughed, stepping out on to the private balcony.

“Moll-a-lily Hoopler. Would you, please, marry me?” he said with a hiccup. She started giggling and blushing. She shook her head.

“You’re a nutter,” she saw a glint of the ring in his hand, “Where’d you get that?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. His face contorted into a grimace as he felt a flutter of heart-burn, “Found it... honest,” Sherlock had found the ring on the street on the way to Molly’s and it inspired his drunken brain to attempt a proposal. He stuffed it into his pocket, “May I come up?”

“Can’t,” She looked at him sadly, “Dad’s here.”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders and lolled his head to one side, “I really have to pee though,” he pleaded. His bladder was uncomfortably full.

“Sherlock, really... you’d better leave... my dad... Oh, not in the bushes! Sherlock!” she shouted. The lights turned on downstairs. Sherlock looked on like a deer in headlights as Molly’s father barrelled across the garden and tackled him to the ground. Sherlock still had his pants around his ankles. Molly’s father held him down until police arrived.

They found his false ID and passport along with the ring that he’d picked up off the street. To add to the charges, Sherlock threatened to return and finish emptying his bladder on Mr Hooper's hideous lawn gnomes, which somehow translated into ‘making threats to destroy or damage property’.

Sherlock was waiting patiently in the drunk tank when he saw Lestrade pass by escorting another arrestee through the holding area.

Lestrade’s look was priceless. He gave Sherlock an open mouthed gasp as he passed by and looked utterly shocked. Sherlock grinned brightly and waved excitedly at Lestrade. He nudged his cellmate with his elbow, “I know him,” he said with a wink. His cellmate was less than amused.

When they got back to the house, after Sherlock was released, there was a lot of yelling. Lestrade was livid and Sherlock was sober. Lestrade shouted all sorts of profanities and by the end of it all he was hoarse and red in the face.

Sherlock vowed to never get arrested in the same borough Lestrade was working in, ever again. Lestrade was less than pleased. Though it wasn’t his division, he volunteered his time outside of his normal duties to see Sherlock to and from his appointments.

Fortunately Lestrade had Mrs Hudson’s name and number in his back pocket. He knew the woman owned a set of flats in the London area and was looking to do some renovations. Who better to pay back his debt to society than the lady he’d once stolen from?

Sherlock wasn’t sorry for what he did. He hardly even thought he’d done anything wrong. A solid month and a half of community service was harsh. Where was Mycroft when he needed him?

Sherlock and Lestrade stood out in the bitter cold just staring at the ground.

"Meet you at home then?" Lestrade said passing Sherlock some tube fare. Sherlock clenched the money in his hand and nodded.

"At home," he responded sheepishly.


	13. Chapter 13

Greg tried to hide his disappointment from his dinner date with another glass of Côte Chalonnaise. The wine tasted like dirt, literally. It was a savory red wine. Some would say it has a rather earthly taste, which is just a fancy way of saying it tastes like dirt. It was cheap as dirt too, which is usually a plus, but Greg wasn’t worried about prices.

It was payday and it was a long running tradition in his family to splurge on a decent dinner. It was just about the only tradition he held on to from his childhood. Bistrot Bruno in Soho was as good as place as any to spend a small fortune on small portions and smelly cheese. He just wished Sherlock would have come along.

He had made reservations and everything. He should be used to disappointment, but it still stung.

Sgt Donovan was more than willing to take Sherlock’s place at the table for two. Greg tried to smile and keep his sighing to an absolute minimum, but even goose fat and snails couldn’t cheer him up.

He liked French cuisine; craved it even. He appreciated that the menu was short, in English, and had the prices listed.

Greg had expected Sally to stick out like a sore thumb in the eating establishment, but she actually looked nice. She had straightened her hair, put on a modestly cut evening dress, and had on make-up. Greg felt like kicking himself for leading her on.

He didn’t think twice about asking her out to a swanky new French restaurant. He was such an idiot. His mind was just so befuddled with Sherlock.

“So,” Sally said breaking the ice with an awkward grin, “How’re things with Sherly?” Greg near grimaced at the mention of his semi-fictional housemate.

“S’fine,” he said taking another large sip of wine.

“Been living together… a month now?”

“Mhmm.”

“What’s with the face?”

Greg was fully grimacing now, “Wine’s… bit strong,” he said giving his chest a hit.

“You two must be real serious now, huh?” she was smirking at her sea bass. She was a highly inquisitive woman; borderline intrusive at times.

“Not even close,” Greg said rolling his eyes.

“You’d like to be?”

Greg shrugged, “Dunno,” She looked up at him with a slightly predatory gaze, “I mean… She’s just not interested.”

“Oh,” Sally looked back down at her food and lifted her eyebrows.

“You know, just when I think we’re headed in that direction… God, I’m sorry, shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be…” Greg shifted in his seat, placed his arms on the table, and leaned in, “You’re a girl.”

“Yeah,” she lifted an eyebrow and gave him a nervous laugh.

“I mean… I’m attractive, right?”

“I-“

“Nice.”

“I-“

“I mean for God’s sake, I have a pulse, don’t I?” Greg groaned. He’d had far too much to drink. He looked down at his hands, “What am I doing wrong?”

“Well have you told her?” Sally said crossing her arms.

“Told her what?” Greg lifted his head slightly, looking up at Sally through his eyelashes, his head still hung low.

“That you fancy her?”

“No,” Greg sat up fully and shifted in his seat, “Think I should?”

“Fuck Greg, women aren’t mind readers!”

“Thought… you… were…”

“She prolly finks you’re a bloody homo, the way you go round seducing women.”

“What?” Greg asked with a high pitched innocence.

“You have at least half a dozen friends who happen to be girls and no _girlfriends_.”

“I do?” Greg looked at her worried.

“Get it together! Ask ‘er out!”

“I did,” Greg slumped his shoulders and swirled his wine.

“Pitiful,” she said shaking her head. She took out her purse, withdrew a twenty pound note, and threw it on the table.

“No, no. I’ve got it. It’s payday. I got it,” he grabbed the twenty and tried handing it back to her.

“I ain’t taken your charity,” she turned to leave, “Oh, and next time, don’t tell your date she was second on the list. Kay?”

Greg closed his eyes and fell back into his chair.

_Oh no. Now I’ve gone and done it. She’s going to tear out my liver and eat it with some fava beans and a nice chianti._

Greg walked as far as his legs were willing to take him before he hailed a cab. His head began to clear and he felt like a giant prat.

_I should have never invited Sally out in the first place. Of course Sherlock didn’t want to go out with me. All I do is treat him like he’s a child. He only acts accordingly. Living up to expectations. I need to change tactics. The boy doesn’t need a father, he needs a friend… damnit._

The cab pulled up to the house on Deacon Road. Greg stayed outside for a while, sucking away at his last cigarette. He’d gone through a whole pack that day, but hey, it was payday! Greg kicked the iron gate that was coming off its hinges. He walked inside, not bothering to mask the stench of his failure.

Greg opened his mouth in shock, “What the hell’s that?”

“Pipe,” Sherlock said puffing away out the side of his mouth.

“Tobacco, I hope!”

“Of course,” Sherlock said cheerfully. He let out a satisfied, “Ah,” and pulled the wood pipe from his lips, “You must try it. It’s my own blend. I call it the _Bohemian Scandal.”_

“Where’d you get the money for this?” Greg looked at him with his brows furrowed in concern.

“Why, it’s payday of course!”

“Payday? You don’t have a job,” Greg gently took the pipe from Sherlock and looked it over, “This is mahogany!”

“Cherry wood,” Sherlock said with a shrug. He lounged back on the sofa and placed his hands behind his head, “Give it a try.” He said with a smug grin.

Greg tentatively brought the pipe to his lips. He inhaled and started coughing and sputtering. Smoke came out his nose and stung his eyes.

Sherlock roared with laughter. He held his gut as he started rolling on the sofa, laughing his head off.

“You… bastard, you laced this, didn’t you?” Greg scowled at him as he wiped his watery eyes.

“No, I swear,” Sherlock looked like he had a stitch in his side from laughing so hard.

“All right, you’ve got me… I’ve never smoked a pipe before.”

“I can tell,” Sherlock snorted, “Here, I’ll show you,” he stood and took the pipe once more. Sherlock placed the bit between his lips and puffed at it lightly, “Mm,” he hummed, “Jus’ a tase. Yeh done inhale eh.”

“What?” Greg laughed.

Sherlock removed the pipe and licked his lips, “Just a taste, you don’t inhale it.”

“Ah, right,” Greg said with a half nod, “May I?”

“I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” Sherlock said with a grin.

Greg took the pipe in his mouth once more and gently puffed it, tasting the smoke, “Huh,” He said lifting his eyebrows, “Qui’ gud,” They laughed and Greg pulled the pipe from his mouth, “Bloody hard to talk with one of them things in your mouth.”

“It’s good?” Sherlock asked excitedly.

“Yeah.”

“Good! I bought you one as well,” Sherlock pulled out a small wooden box.

“Sherlock,” Greg said with a chiding tone.

_You can’t treat him like a child. God, but where did he get the money?_

Greg whimpered on the inside, “Thanks,” he said pulling the box’s lid back; revealing the tobacco pipe.

After setting Greg up with his own bowl of tobacco the two gentlemen sat back on the sofa feeling rather suave and debonair. They kept laughing like loons.

“Sherlock, old chap, what ever would possess you to purchase such an extravagant… thing?” Greg asked with his best posh accent, “It’s positively… oh fuck, what’s the word? Ostentatious?”

“Pretentious?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Greg continued to puff away, absolutely giddy. His heart was flourishing and he felt a warm feeling nestled inside him, “I feel posh as shit,” he said with a laugh, “Shit, haven’t gotten high off nicotine in ages,” He started to feel light-headed and a bit woozy.

“When was the first time you had a cigarette?” Sherlock knitted his brows and analysed Greg’s face.

“You mean the first, first time? Or when I started really smoking?”

Sherlock crossed his legs and leaned back further, stretching his free arm on the back of the sofa. His fingertips were dangerously close to Greg’s shoulder.

“Either. Both, if you’d prefer,” Sherlock said with a grin.

“Well… my first, first time… Hm… Must have been five years old,” Sherlock’s face became unexplainably expressionless, “Yeah, but I didn’t really start ‘til I was thirteen,” Greg recovered. Sherlock was looking into Greg’s eyes searchingly. Greg looked down at his hands. He ran his fingers down the pipe’s stem, “Can we… not talk bout me?” he asked, tapping his ashes out into the ash tray.

Sherlock blinked and shook his head. He dumped his tobacco ash into the ash tray as well and tapped the pipe a few times. “Fine,” he said suddenly, “It’s fine.” Sherlock coughed. He gave Greg a small grin, but his brows were still furrowed with concern.

“Look, I’m not hiding noth… anything,” Greg shook his head and licked the front of his teeth, “You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Actually…”

Greg leaned forward and realized far too late that he had grabbed Sherlock’s cheek and was kissing him tenderly. He pulled away slowly and gently opened his eyes. It felt like the world was set in slow motion. Greg’s brain felt it was in the wrong time zone.

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed. He couldn’t have opened them any slower if he’d tried. The world stood still as they sat looking deeply into each other’s eyes.

Greg noticed the flecks of gold in Sherlock’s eyes start to twinkle as his gaze softened. Sherlock’s lips tugged into a smirk and Greg mirrored his grin.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock was a whirl-wind of unbridled joy. His hands were tremouring with excitement. He had the oddest sensation in his legs. He just wanted to leap into the air and shout ‘ _Yes, yes, yes!’_

He’d taken over Lestrade’s gran’s former room and was spending his day off settling in. Lestrade gave the door a few raps and walked in. Sherlock kerbed his enthusiasm and pretended to be nonchalantly fluffing a pillow.

“Just throw anything you think is of value in a box and toss it in my room. I’m off, be home late.”

_No ‘remember to eat something’ or ‘don’t do anything stupid’. He hasn’t even asked where I’ve been getting my clothes! It seems this whole ‘maturity’ scam is a resounding success! Just wait until Mycroft gets a load of these._

Sherlock pulled out a brand new pair of Signature Saint Laurent Blake Richelieu shoes.

_Black patent leather. Classic. Just beautiful. A bit showy, but then again… so am I. Positively gorgeous._

Sherlock inhaled deeply and exhaled with a grin. He looked over his other new wares before hanging them up gingerly in the armoire.

_Yves Saint-Laurent, Armani, Gucci, Chanel._

Sherlock lovingly stroked the lilac pinstripes on the purple shirt he’d reclaimed from the pawn shop.

_Dolce & Gabbana._

It was the only bit of colour in his otherwise greyscale wardrobe.  He couldn’t stop looking at himself in the mirror. He looked sharp.

_Oh God, I could just kiss Jim._

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and tried to tear his eyes away from his reflection. He closed his eyes and grimaced. His eyes shot open once more and he let out a small gasp. God he looked good.

He felt good too. Jim was a genius, an absolute, proper genius.

The homeless network took two weeks to get back to him with a name and address. Sherlock went to search for Moriarty alone after his second full day of ‘community service’. Of course he had to ask _permission_ from both Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to walk home on his own. Sherlock was beyond infuriated.

He arrived outside the masionette on Chesham Place in Belgravia and promptly tore up the paper and threw it on the ground. He grabbed at his hair and let out a strangled shout.

He’d waited _weeks_ for this and someone was playing games with him. This wasn’t the home of some low-life drug lord. Sherlock let his hands drop and let out a deep breath. His lip twitched into a snarl. He stormed up to the front door and started pounding on it.

A small teenage boy opened the door and stuck his head out. Sherlock was taken aback.

“Sorry… I must…” Sherlock looked at his fist which was still raised in the air. He nervously put it down and placed it behind his back, “Is your… father home?” Sherlock asked, trying to peak inside. The boy furrowed his brows. He looked offended. “Mother?” the boy looked even more offended, “Moriarty?”

“Yeah… who wants to know?” he asked with a sassy tone as he leaned against the door jam, crossing his arms.

“You… you’re not…”

“Not what you were expecting?” he offered, lifting his eyebrows. He slumped his shoulders and turned. He sauntered back into the house, “Come in,” he said with an exacerbated sigh, “Right this way,” he said with a grumble; walking like the weight of the world was set on his shoulders. He led Sherlock through the entry hall, past a small kitchen, and into a grand reception room.

The boy plopped down on a white sofa and sunk in. He threw his head against the back of the sofa, extended an arm, and motioned to the adjacent sofa. “Have a seat… or don’t,” he groaned. Sherlock stood looking at him, trying to analyse something, anything. He was drawing a blank.

“Um,” Sherlock wrung his hands in worry. The boy sat up, scooted forward to the edge of the sofa, and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, “Look kid, I dunno who the fuck you are or who the fuck you think you are-“

“Sherlock Holmes.”

The boy sat straight up like a meerkat. His attitude turned a complete 180, “Oh!” he said with a startled expression, “ _You’re_ Sherlock Holmes!” he said with a deep raspy voice.

 _Irish…_ it was the only bit of information he was getting from the boy. Sherlock scanned the room. It was startling white and immaculately clean from floor to ceiling. Glass was a common theme in the room. Glass shelves, glass coffee table, glass side tables. A glass chandelier adorned the ceiling and shone sparkling white light across the room.

The boy was strikingly dark in comparison. He was wearing a navy blue suit jacket with matching trousers. His black hair was slicked back neatly and he had the darkest brown eyes Sherlock had ever seen.

If he kept his mouth shut the boy looked highly refined and mature but when he spoke his voice cracked and involuntarily skipped a few octaves.

“That Raz character told me _all_ about you,” The boy’s eyebrows drooped and he made a pouty face, “I’m _so_ sorry I got to him first,” Sherlock continued to look at him with his relentless gaze, “You’re bored.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock blinked.

“You’re just like me. So, so _bored._ _All the time,_ ” he said with a false sense of anger, “Just, staying alive. So boring, isn’t it? It’s just… _staying._ Feels like I’m trapped in an old Bee Gees tune,” he licked his bottom lip slowly and started rolling his neck at his shoulders, “Mm. All my life I’ve been searching for distractions,” he looked up at Sherlock, “You know the feeling,” Sherlock fell on to the sofa with a soft thud. He listened intently, “Name’s Jim.”

“Jim,” Sherlock said with a nod.

“You know, m’not as old as I look,” he paused for a moment then laughed softly, “Aren’t you gonna ask how old I am?”

“How old-“

“Eighteen,” he said with a wry smile, “Just turned,” his smile faded, “Surprised?” Sherlock nodded in response, “Let’s just cut to the chase, I don’t like all this… dancing around,” he spat out his tongue in distaste and licked his teeth as he grimaced, “I could really use you, Sherlock. Really. Hm… boy like you. The reputation you have,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, “Oh… oh!” he laughed heartily. He held a hand to his chest, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean _that_ reputation!” he let his laughter fade until it became short bursts, low in his throat. He let out a sigh and his face became serious once more.

Jim shifted more, his bum was barely hanging on to the edge of the seat, “You see, I have this problem,” he said with a pout. “These… mean men out there. They want to _steal_ my business. There’s a _mole_ and-“ he threw his arms up in the air, “I just can’t figure out who it is!”

“How-“

“You can help by gathering intelligence,” Jim said with a wicked smile and a small twinkle in his eye.

“What makes you think-“

“Sherlock, Sherlock,” Jim said with a tut, “I _know_ you can,” he stood up and brushed off the front of his suit, “I’ll give you anything, anything your heart desires, it’s yours. And it doesn’t end there,” he said with a grin, “You help me with my little problem and I’ll give you the full ounce. No strings attached!” he walked over to Sherlock and leaned in close. He raised his index finger and tapped on Sherlock’s nose, “Until then, I have a little substitute,” he pinched the tip of Sherlock’s nose gently and gave it a small shake, “Your mind must be like BWAH!” he shouted flailing his hands as he walked out of the sitting area, “I have just the thing,” he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

Sherlock watched with curiosity as he pulled out a bottle of water. Jim walked back over and handed the bottle to Sherlock.

“I’m not thirsty.” Sherlock said placing a palm against the bottle. Jim rolled his eyes. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and stuffed the bottle into his hand.

“Remove your shoes.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, “Wh-“

“Just…” Jim closed his eyes and grimaced, “Twist the bottle,” Sherlock went to remove the cap, “Round the middle, stupid!” Jim shouted.

Sherlock blushed and twisted the bottle around the middle.

He let out a shocked, “Oh.”

“7% by volume. S’enough,” Jim said as Sherlock toed of his shoes, “Socks too… _moron,”_ Jim mumbled. Sherlock pulled out the concealed insulin needle and gave it a few flicks. Sherlock brought his bare foot up on to the sofa and rested his chin on his knee. He pulled his toes apart and struggled to find a vein. Jim shook his head, walked over, and knelt in front of Sherlock. “Give,” he said impatiently. Sherlock handed him the needle, slid back on the sofa, and held his foot steady for Jim.

Jim plucked a piece of cotton out from between his toes and looked up at him in disgust, “You’re getting fitted for a new wardrobe today. I’m not having you wearing _that_ and working for me.”

Sherlock looked down at his red sweatshirt, “It’s reversible,” he said shamefacedly.

Jim stuck the needle in and Sherlock jumped in pain, “Forgot to mention… hurts don’t it?” he said with a malicious grin. Sherlock nodded and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, “Big baby.”

Jim depressed the plunger slowly and Sherlock began to perk up. Jim removed the needle swiftly and launched it across the room. It landed in the waste bin with a _swish._

He stood up and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, “Let’s get you those clothes.”

Sherlock returned to Deacon Road that night with two tobacco pipes and several tins of oriental tobacco. He returned daily for his dose of the 7% and more wonderful gifts. On the third day, Jim insisted he tame his wild hair.

While he was being pampered and prepped, Jim spoke volumes about older men.

Sherlock kept Lestrade’s name out of the discussion and only spoke vaguely about the subject. Jim had far too much experience in getting what he wanted from men. Sherlock listened in awe.

“It really is a balance-“ Jim interrupted his speech with a sip of Chardonnay. He gave a small shrug and a hum while he swallowed, “Older men, they’re really looking for something _sweet_ but with a bit of _spice,_ ” he sucked down the rest of the wine and set it off to the side, “Oh and you _cannot_ show your age,” Jim laughed, “There’s nothing worse than an immature little brat, am I right?”

Jim sat on the countertop, in front of the mirror, while Sherlock was getting sheered like a sheep. He grabbed a tuft of hair on the top of Sherlock’s head and held it up, “Hm, bit more off the top,” He said to the stylist. He fiddled with the curl a bit longer and let it go, “And he’s having it coloured as well. Raven… just like mine,” he said with a curt smile.

Lestrade was really starting to notice Sherlock and Sherlock was reveling in the attention. Lestrade seemed more at ease since his dinner date with Sally. Sherlock was far too busy in Belgravia that night. He hadn’t anticipated his time with his nemesis being so delightfully fun.

Jim was sinfully amusing. He always had something ill-mannered to say.

“Honey, I only deal with men. I can’t tell you how much it worries me that a woman will waltz in here and unleash her menstruals all over my nice white furnishings.”

Sherlock was eager to please and Jim was more than eager to be pleased. The two boys were strictly business but Sherlock felt like they were on their way to forming a beautiful friendship.

Sherlock immediately set out to find the mole. He was quick to point out several weak spots in Jim’s delivery system. Jim was even quicker to cut the weak links and shower Sherlock with praise. By the end of their first week Jim was in the green several thousand more pounds than he had anticipated. He used the profits to ridiculously spoil his new pet.

“ _Good_. Very good,” he ruffled Sherlock’s hair, “God, it’s like lamb’s wool. You’ve been using the conditioner, haven’t you?” Sherlock laughed in response, “How’s the vermouth?”

“Bit sweet.”

“Brat,” Jim scoffed. He took the glass from Sherlock’s hand, “Go home, get some rest. Big day tomorrow. Meeting with the big boys,” he placed a brand new silk tie in Sherlock’s hand, “Cuff links and tie pin, and don’t you dare give me that face,” he scolded.

“I can’t come tomorrow… I have community service,” Sherlock blushed in embarrassment.

“Skive.”

“Can’t, it’s court ordered.”

Jim gave him an annoyed look, held up two fingers, and moved them into his mouth. He lifted his eyebrows and Sherlock got the picture.

The next day Sherlock ate a hefty breakfast and immediately purged it. He retched loudly and snot ran out of his nose as he voided the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He left the lavatory clutching his stomach and looking rather pale. Lestrade insisted he stayed home, though Sherlock protested. He put on his Oscar winning performance.

“Mrs Hudson…” _cough, cough,_ “Needs me.”

“Last thing she needs is your projectile vomit all over her flat.”

The moment Lestrade left for work Sherlock readied himself for the meeting. It was fascinating being on the other end of the needle. Sherlock paid little attention to the actual proceedings and discussions about smuggling several hundred kilos in from Venezuela. He was intently watching the men and how they interacted.

After the meeting concluded, Sherlock turned to Jim. “The Puerto Rican.”

“You’re sure?”

Sherlock looked at him with a dead serious stare. Jim gave the orders to his right-hand man and he and Sherlock left promptly.

“Well that takes care of my _rat_ problem,” Jim said washing his hands in the sink, “How’s progress with the mole?”

“Slow going, but I wouldn’t say your rat problem is completely eradicated.”

Jim let out a loud groan as he clutched onto the sink’s edge, “Is there no honour among thieves? I mean come on!” he shouted. He wiped his hands dry, “Who?” he asked calmly.

“Word is there is an informant in your Soho trust.”

Jim rolled his eyes, “Find out who it is,” He let out a sigh, “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

“Monday?” Sherlock asked anxiously.

“I’ll be out of town, another meeting.”

“But… the seven percent.”

“Withdrawal’s not bad,” Jim said dismissively, pushing the door open.

“But that’s five days from now!”

“Seriously, get over it,” he said with a huff, “Here,” He tossed Sherlock a cardboard box.

“What’s this?”

“Phone.”

Sherlock opened the box and revealed a dark grey Motorola flip phone.

“7200, latest model. Piece of shit, if you ask me. I’ve broken three already. But, you know how I am,” Jim said with a shrug. He gave Sherlock a look, “Oh, gee, thanks Jim,” Jim said sardonically, “Honestly, Sherlock. Posh as fuck and no manners whatsoever…” he walked off to the lift and left Sherlock who was looking over the strange device.

It vibrated and Sherlock near dropped it. A little green screen lit up with the words ‘ _Feel free to use SMS -JM’_

Sherlock looked at the technology in the palm of his hand as if it had descended from the heavens.

The amount of stuff Sherlock had started accumulating was becoming overbearing for the small front room in Lestrade’s home. Lestrade finally caved in and let Sherlock have the room upstairs. There was no mention of his illustrious sister and when she’d show up needing to root through her gran’s ‘treasures’.

Sherlock continued hanging his prized outfits in the armoire, stroking the fabric of each gently. Cashmere, silk, marled wool, smooth cotton. Sherlock was enamored with his wardrobe. He removed his shoes from their packaging gently and placed them on the bottom shelf of the armoire. Jim insisted he purchase dark-oxblood oxfords to go with his dark grey suit.

Jim was John Lobb obsessed, Sherlock preferred Saint-Laurent. Oh well, they couldn’t see eye to eye on everything.

Jim fretted over Sherlock’s form and how much of him was made-to-measure. Jim was the Vitruivan man while Sherlock was Picasso worthy with his sharp angles and uneven proportions. His musculature made it difficult to find a suit that gave him the proper shape and a well-defined shoulder.

Jim once slapped his abs with a curved lance ruler and chided him for having a six pack and bony ribs, “One or the other, Sherlock!”

Sherlock finished putting away his clothes and instantly felt bored. Jim wouldn’t be back for another four days. Sherlock had today free but the next three would be filled with Mrs Hudson’s blathering nonsense.

He didn’t feel like purging again. He hated to throw up. He couldn’t imagine how bulimics managed.

He didn’t want to be around Mrs Hudson, she made him feel like a child. He wanted to be treated like the man he suddenly was.

His work was his passion now. It kept his mood lifted and occupied his focus. He enjoyed it immensely: tracking down Jim’s men, working out their intentions, putting a stop to narks.

The smugglers were the worst. They put far too much faith in strangers. They'd hire tourists to bring product across the border. The main problem was the tourists they hired _had_ to be stupid. It was a corrupt system fuelled by greed.

They’d offer the foreigners a free vacation, all expenses paid, in exchange for bringing something a little extra with them in their luggage. They needn’t worry about being caught. _Everyone_ was paid off and they had people in customs that would turn a blind eye. Atleast… that’s what they told the poor sods.

The truth of the matter was nobody in customs was paid off. They ran a risk every time some moronic bastard got his passport stamped and wheeled his drug laden suitcase past a line of sniffer dogs. For the most part the tourists were loyal little sheep, a few were sent to slaughter, but they were like condoms, once used they were worthless.

This was how business was conducted and Sherlock was appalled by the amount of negligence. None of it could be traced back to Jim, but he was the one taking the major hit. Sherlock’s mind whirled with new ideas. He sought to invent a new transportation device, one that one of Jim’s many henchmen could carry across customs and nobody would bat an eye at it or think twice to check it for drugs and if they did, the sniffer dogs wouldn’t react to it.

Sherlock put this high on the agenda. It was a side-project that would please Jim greatly, but Sherlock had other tasks that took precedence. Starting with the mole.

The homeless network was getting more and more sluggish. Sherlock had to pick up the pace before the mole did more damage. It had to be an insider. On several occasions deliveries were intercepted and when Jim’s men turned up to pick up the product it had been given away to someone who knew just what to say. Another flaw in the system.

The informant in Soho was a nobody, some junior police officer. Sherlock tried not to think about what would happen to the man. It gave him an odd feeling in his gut. He didn’t like to think of Lestrade on the street with Jim’s men.

He didn’t want Lestrade to pursue a career in the CID just in case he came face to gun with one of Moriarty’s henchmen. Sherlock shook the thought out of his head and started going through Lestrade’s gran’s belongings. He donned a pair of leather gloves and started stuffing old soiled laundry into waste bags.

The faux gold plated Jesus on the crucifix that hung over the bed was next to go. He gave Sherlock the creeps with his empty eyes. Sherlock held the corner of the cross and set it gingerly into a box labeled _‘Shit for Sister’._ Sherlock thought Lestrade would get a kick out of the labeling.

As Sherlock dug deeper he found nothing of true value and he knew true value down to the penny. His mind kept adding up the numbers which so far amounted to nil. Charity shops would likely reject most of the items.

He started throwing bags of worthless crap down the staircase for Lestrade to deal with later and returned his attention to the thinning room. He was able to see the wallpaper fully; certain spots were more faded than others from uneven exposure to sunlight.

He spotted an area in the middle of the room where the wallpaper had started to wrinkle and there was a small tear forming. Sherlock tore back a piece of the wallpaper and found a bold floral pattern underneath, he made a face. He started chipping away and found another wallpaper underneath.

Before he knew it he was ten wallpapers in and there was a gaping hole in the middle of the room. Scraps of paper lay at his feet. He couldn’t seem to stop peeling away. He blinked and found himself hitting solid wood. He titled his head to one side. There was a long straight crack running up and down the wall.

He knocked on the wall and it sounded hollow. He shuffled to the side, knocked, still hollow. Another step to the side, _knock knock,_ solid. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and smiled. He ran downstairs and straight into the kitchen to grab a chef’s knife. He returned upstairs and started tearing away at the wallpaper viciously until he revealed a large rectangle.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and placed his finger in the hole where a door handle would have been. He looped his fingers in and gave the door a good tug. It didn’t budge. Sherlock kept sawing away with the knife. He gave it another try, still jammed.

_This door hasn’t been opened in nearly a hundred years!_

His curiosity was beyond piqued. He had to know what was behind the door. He started to throw his weight into it and then gave it a good pull. He placed his foot against the wall, bared his teeth, and pulled with all his might.

The door gave out suddenly and Sherlock tumbled backwards on to his bottom.

“Oof,” he winced as he rubbed his tail-bone.

He stood uneasily and leaned in to the doorway to find a thin corridor with two doors, one on each side. He stepped out and felt his heart flutter of excitement. He knew the top storey was far too small for the size of the ground floor.

_What a strange layout._

He tapped the brass wall sconce.

_Gas lit._

He walked back out of the narrow hallway and stepped back into the room.

He let out an involuntary scream as he came face to face with Lestrade.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lestrade asked in shock. Sherlock caught his breath and pulled the torch off Lestrade’s belt. “Hey!” he shouted following Sherlock back through the door, “Holy shit…” Lestrade said as he looked up at the ceiling.

Sherlock tried the first door and it opened with an eerie creak. Lestrade followed close on his heels. Lestrade coughed as they stirred up a thick layer of dust. He grabbed Sherlock’s forearm.

“What?” Sherlock jumped back. Lestrade leaned forward and tapped the floorboards with his foot.

“Could be condemnable, you never know,” Lestrade scolded. Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade’s conjecture, “Right, when you fall through into the kitchen-“

Sherlock strolled forward easily.

“It’s no worse than the rest of the damned house,” Sherlock said scanning the room with the torch. The small light illuminated two small beds and a bassinette.

“A nursery,” Lestrade said looking it over, “All right… this is giving me the creeps…”

Sherlock shone the light in Lestrade’s face, “What are you doing home? You said you’d be back late.”

Lestrade held a hand to his face to block the blinding light, “What is this? An interrogation?” Sherlock let the torch fall, “I decided to come home for lunch.”

“You never come home for lunch.”

“Yeah well… Sally’s right pissed at me for being a complete dick on our little ‘date’,” he said with finger quotations.

“What did you say to her?”

“That she was second on the list… after you.”

“You mean after _Sherly,_ ” Sherlock scoffed as he returned his attention to the nursery. The mural on the wall looked like an image straight from one of Grimm’s fairy tales. Sherlock leaned forward to brush his hand against the wall, “This was hand-painted.”

It was a gorgeous forest scene that had a tremendous amount of depth and featured two children skipping off into the forest.

“Hansel and Gretel?” Lestrade put a foot forward and leaned into the room, “They look… sort of demonic,” Lestrade got a chill up his spine and withdrew from the room, “Nope too creepy,” he said, shivering from head to toe.

Sherlock leaned in closer and stared at the children’s faces. Their smiles were curled at the edges giving them a possessed look. The wind kicked up outside and a whistling sound filled the room. Sherlock turned to see that Lestrade had vanished.

Sherlock rushed out of the room and saw Lestrade in his gran’s room pacing nervously.

“Nope! I’m done, no more. Seal that room off. It’s haunted, definitely haunted.”

“What!” Sherlock shouted with a laugh, “Surely you’re not superstitious, Constable.”

“You saw those demon children! The empty beds! It was straight from a horror film!”

“There’s still another room left to be explored! Come on!” Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s hand and dragged him through the hidden doorway once more.

“It’s the funny ones that go first, you know? Seen it happen far too many times.”

“What are you going on about?” Sherlock asked, becoming annoyed. He pushed open the adjacent door and stepped inside.

Lestrade started pulling away instantly and tried to brush off Sherlock’s hand, “Let go!”

“What’s the matter? It’s just a bunch of clowns.”

“I _hate_ clowns,” Lestrade hissed.

“You once ran away to join the circus!”

“And you wonder why I hate them?” he clamped his eyes shut and whimpered, “This one is worse! Far worse.”

Sherlock stood in the threshold of the former playroom. The walls were decorated with full-sized hand-painted dancing clowns, with similar demonic smiles. Sherlock picked up a frightening looking doll with matted golden curls and no dress. It had a metal body and articulated wooden limbs. He turned it over to reveal a small music box like crank.

He turned the crank slowly. A high pitched monstrous sound reverberated out of the small holes in the doll’s chest, “ _Ruh, Ra, Ra, Ruh, Rur,”_ it said. Lestrade looked utterly terrified.

“Wh-what is that thing?” Lestrade had completely backed out of the room and was clutching on to the door jam for support.

Sherlock brought the torch up close and examined the doll, “It’s a phonograph doll,” Sherlock looked over the backside, “From New York,” he hummed, “It could be worth a small fortune.”

“What?” Lestrade straightened up and walked into the room.

“Looks like one of Edison’s.”

“The… light-bulb guy?”

“Among… other things… yes,” Sherlock removed the phonograph, “Fixed wax cylinder, no innerspring motor, looks like it was well taken care of; the steel stylus would have torn through the wax after only a few uses at the hands of a small child.”

“What d’you think it’s saying?”

Sherlock started turning the crank once more, making it repeat its ghoulish incantation, “ _Lestrade, I want to swallow your soul…”_ Sherlock said in his best demonic child’s voice.

“Very funny,” Lestrade said giving him a light shove.

“Sounds like ‘Little Jack Horner’.”

“Stuff in here looks ancient,” Lestrade said looking around the dim-lit room.

The torch suddenly flickered off and Lestrade clutched on to Sherlock’s shoulder with an eagle like grip.

“Tell me you’re not afraid of the dark,” Sherlock said with a groan.

“Not when we’re in a room filled with demonic clowns. Not when we’re in a room with demonic clowns,” Lestrade repeated the mantra and started to hyperventilate.

“Pull yourself together, man!” Sherlock started walking out of the room with Lestrade still clinging on for dear life. He stepped back into the light of the main bedroom, “See? All better,” Sherlock stuffed the doll into Lestrade’s hands.

Lestrade stood in the middle of the room taking in deep breaths, “If… if you’d seen Stephen King’s _It_ , you-you’d be… freaking out… just as bad,” He threw the doll on to the bed, covered his face with his hands, and started sucking in deep breaths.

“You really do make me wonder about the Metropolitan Police force’s selection committee.”

“Hey, everyone’s afraid of something," he said as he leaned over and placed his hands on his knees, “Jesus Christ, that was a nightmare come true in there.”

“Coulrophobia,” Sherlock said looking him over, “The irrational fear of clowns.”

Lestrade looked back to the open door, “We need to cover that up. I can’t have my sister coming round and seeing that.”

“Why not?”

“She’s been down my throat ever since I got the place. If she finds out it’s got four bedrooms… that’s it! I’ll be put out on the fucking street,” he started shaking his head, “Her n’ Barb would be tearing each other limb from limb trying to take this place.”

“Yes because two rooms is too small, she has small children. Children… you hate… Why would you _hate_ her children?”

“I don’t hate her children… they’re just… You know how demonic those children in the forest scene looked?” Lestrade asked and Sherlock nodded in response. “They’re nothing compared to Trish’s kids.”

“What about kin selection and inclusive fitness?”

“What about _what_?”

“Oh, so they’re your half-sisters.”

“Wait… how’d you get half-sister out of-“

“Same father different mother, they see you as a threat to their happy little family. Gran didn’t like your mum; therefore, by association you as well. Mum’s a… hm… drug addict?” Lestrade’s face dropped, “Ah, yes, that’s it,” Sherlock said with a satisfied grin, “You’re some drug whore’s baby with a decorated war hero as a father. American by the looks of things; that would put you in the Vietnam War wouldn’t it?” Sherlock turned with a gasp, “So he was _married_ at the time of your birth. Oh, this just keeps getting better,” Sherlock turned and pointed one finger, “I knew you had a good story, hidden away,” Sherlock patted Lestrade on the shoulder and took a quick glance at his wristwatch, “My, you’d better be getting back soon! Your hour’s almost up," he turned Lestrade around by his shoulders and ushered him out the door, “No worries, I’ll have this cleaned up before you can say Bob’s your uncle.”

“But, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a pale face.

“What is it?” Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“Bob _is_ my uncle.”


	15. Chapter 15

Greg worked on auto-pilot, disturbed down to the core over what he’d seen and heard. He went home for lunch to find Sherlock had dug a hole in his gran’s wall. He was about to throttle the kid and then they started exploring two of the most bizarre hidden rooms... in his own house! It was unbelievable.

Then Sherlock went off on a tangent about his mum’s drug problems and his half-sisters and he just didn’t know what to think anymore. He was also starving from having skipped lunch.

Gregson was quiet, too quiet. He kept looking at Greg nervously. Greg just wanted his shift to be over so he could go home and talk things over with Sherlock; he had a lot to get off his chest.

After ten hours on his feet, Greg stumbled into the house to find the creepy Edison doll waiting for him on the sofa.

_So I didn’t dream it all up. It actually happened. There are two extra rooms upstairs and Sherlock’s some freakish mind reader. So bizarre._

Sherlock bolted down the stairs and grabbed Greg by the hand. He dragged him up the stairs two steps at a time.

“Sher-“

“Come see what I’ve done with the room," Sherlock demanded as he pulled harder. Greg looked into his eyes, his pupils seemed normal enough.

_The boy needs to lay off the tobacco pipe._

Sherlock threw open the bedroom door.

“Where’s your stuff?” Greg asked, looking over the bare room. He’d never seen it so clean.

Sherlock opened up the armoire, pushed back his suit jackets and revealed the hidden door. He smiled brightly.

“So you… cut a hole in gran’s wardrobe…”

“Yes and all of my things are safely stored away in the nursery,” he tapped Greg’s nose with his forefinger, “That way when your evil half-sister stops by for a visit she won’t even know I exist!” he exclaimed with a bold grin, “What do you think? Honest opinions now.”

“You cut a hole through my gran’s wardrobe.”

“Yes.”

Greg pursed his lips and nodded, “Could’ve maybe asked a guy first, you know, before you go cutting a hole into his gran’s antique wardrobe.”

“I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock said climbing into the armoire, “Come on, see what else I’ve done.”

Greg let out a small sigh and climbed through the wardrobe into Sherlock’s private Narnia.

“Sherlock, it’s freezing in here,” Greg crossed his arms and started shivering.

“I don’t mind it.”

“What about lighting?”

Sherlock pulled up a gas camping lantern, “Warmth and light. Ingenious, no?”

“Um… no… It’s still creepy as hell in here,” he turned and squinted at the mural, “Why’d you draw moustaches on the children?”

“Thought it would make them, I don’t know, _less_ creepy.”

“Didn’t work,” Greg said with a shudder. Now Hansel and Gretel looked like they were devils incognito.

“I’ll get around to painting eventually,” Sherlock said with a shrug as he plopped down on one of the beds.

“What child’s room doesn’t have a window?” Greg asked as he scanned the room.

“I’m trying to figure that out for myself. I thought I’d start by looking into the artist who painted the murals,” Sherlock let out a soft groan, “I wish I wasn’t so busy. Finally something fun is going on around here.”

“Well you got yourself into the mess with Mrs Hudson.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“What else have you got yourself busy with?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock refuted.

“Oh really? A closet full of new clothes, the latest mobile phone? And you’re not doing anything?”

“All right, you’ve caught me,” Sherlock sighed. Greg sat on the edge of his bed and waited for an explanation, “I’ve been spending a good sum of my spare time with my brother. He’s impressed with my _progress_ and has been trying to… get me to stay with him,” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Oh,” Greg said, looking down at his hands, “But… you’ve moved all your stuff in here now. So?”

“I don’t plan on moving anytime soon.”

“Well now that you’ve got this glamorous new bachelor’s pad, I can’t blame you,” Greg laughed as he looked around the room. “So strange,” he said with a grin.

“What is?”

“You,” Greg found himself leaning in. His hand found Sherlock’s.

_I can’t even begin to understand you and just when I think I might be getting my brain wrapped round things, you go and burst down my walls… literally._

He leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s lips with his own. It still felt just as good. He pulled away to see Sherlock still had his eyes closed. Man, he was sensual in his purple shirt, never mind that it was coated in dust and debris. Greg found himself running his hand up Sherlock’s abdomen, getting a feel of the cotton shirt, bunching up the fabric in his hand.

He revealed a bit of skin, just below the navel. The exposed flesh was just begging to be caressed and adorned with soft kisses.

He was brought back to reality when the wind started whistling once more and the lamp’s light flickered. Greg startled and sat straight up. Sherlock looked up at him with disappointment.

“I’m… just gonna… head downstairs n’ unwind for a bit… kay?” he said looking at his surroundings. It felt like the walls were closing in on him and there was a definite chill in the air.

Greg left the nursery and returned to his gran’s room. He felt strange, stranger than he had ever felt before. Perhaps it was just the location that was turning his stomach to knots.

He wasn’t sure how to approach Sherlock. The guy was brilliant and erotic, but so young. It was easy enough to keep his hands off when Sherlock was behaving like a little boy, but now that he was walking around in tailor-made suits, it was killing Greg to not throw himself at Sherlock.

Sherlock was drop dead gorgeous and Greg felt like he was swooning. He knew he had been overly dramatic in the demon clown room.

_‘Save me, Sherlock!’ Damnit, what’s wrong with me?_

He headed downstairs feeling defeated. What would a guy like Sherlock see in him anyhow?

For whatever reason, he was feeling a bit torn up inside about Sherlock calling his mum a drug whore. Sherlock didn’t know any better. Obviously Sherlock could gather plenty of evidence through his observations but he didn’t understand the whole truth of the matter.

Greg’s mum sheltered him from her drug habits. She was dealt a crap card and tried her best when he was younger to keep them both afloat.

They lived in poverty, but other people had it worse. Greg had a roof over his head, a telly, running water, and electricity. Greg was glued to the telly; he had his favourite programs: Animal Magic, The Flinstones, Play School. He often watched Z-cars screened live. He was fascinated with police officers.

He’d watch seated far too close to the set with his neck craned up and his mouth hanging wide open. After nightly closedown he’d be left with a fuzzy dazed feeling and a stiff neck. His mum would head off to work the graveyard shift at the local diner and leave him with the same instructions. “Don’t open the door to nobody. If yeh make so much as peep, social worker’s gonna come and snatch you up.”

Greg was terrified of the social worker. She looked ordinary enough in her long skirt and green blazer, but if Greg acted up while his mum was away or if he answered the door on his own, she’d be waiting for him to take him away to God knows where.

Greg had a hard time sleeping at night. He didn’t like being all alone. When his mum would come home at six in the morning he’d crawl into bed with her and sleep the day away.

He spent most of his time alone looking for food. He remembered most of his childhood being in a constant state of hunger. When he first started staying home alone at age three he was clever enough to turn on the tap and drink water to try satiate his hunger.

He quickly found this only made matters worse. He’d gulp down so much water it would make his stomach ache and the pain was far worse than hunger.

He’d search the house from top to bottom for food. He’d lick empty packets of butter and jam his mum nicked from the restaurant. When he was desperate he’d chew on the paper from sugar packets.

He adored sugar bread. His mum would make toast, coat it in butter, and sprinkle sugar on it, and Greg was in heaven. The one benefit of working in a diner was his mum got a free meal to bring home with her after her shift was up.

Greg would stay up so late some nights he’d greet his mum in the early morning so he could tear into the bag of food right at the door. He always ate it too fast and never saved any for later.

His mum always joked, “You act like I never feed ya!” He ate with grunts and small growls as he tore into his food. His hands shook with excitement which would make his mum laugh. He didn’t care what was for breakfast; he wasn’t a picky eater at all.

With a full tummy and a messy face he’d flop down on to the lie low and sleep as long as he could, curled up at his mother’s side.

He liked the way things were; he had a set routine, he knew he’d be fed in the morning; he had his telly to keep him company when his mum was napping, and above all he loved having his mum all to himself.

Then everything changed when his mum came home one morning without a brown paper bag. Greg thought she was just playing a game and was hiding it from him, which she did sometimes to see him jump up and down in excitement.

After he was certain she wasn’t playing with him he started throwing a tantrum. Then she hit him with more news. Not only had she lost her job, they were moving. Greg didn’t want to move.

He refused to get in the car that was waiting for them. His mum stuffed all of their belongings into the back seat and Greg had to sit in between her knees in the front. There was a strange man driving the car. He was unkempt with jet black hair and a scruffy beard. His fingertips were stained yellow and he had red streaks in the corners of his eyes. Greg had no idea what to make of him.

Greg had never met any of his mum’s friends.

He looked friendly, the way he kept smiling at his mum. His mum kept petting Greg’s hair back, trying to get him to fall asleep, but he kept asking questions.

“Why’s is the bed not coming?”

“There’s no room for it. There’s a bed at the new place.”

“Why’s telly on its face?”

“Greg go ta sleep.”

“It’s no ‘posed to be like that!” Greg shouted pointing at his beloved tv set. He kept straining to see if his telly was alright in the back. “It’s sad, cos it’s on its face. Can I watch telly?” Greg looked out at the bright morning’s sun, knowing the Flinstones were likely running a repeat.

“S’no ‘lectricity, can’t run telly wif-out it!” his mum told him, “Go ta sleep,” she said, holding him tight against her chest. Greg stared at the man driving the car. He didn’t smell _right_.

Up until that point, Greg had a short list of people he actually knew. There was his mum, the social worker, and the landlady. He didn’t have any men in his life, save the man downstairs that banged his broom on the ceiling when Greg got too loud. He’d seen him once when he came upstairs to yell at his mum in person.

Greg was about to ask a million and one questions about the man that was taking them away but he soon passed out from exhaustion.

Greg jerked awake as they started driving on a rough dirt road. They arrived at a small shack at the edge of the woods. Greg sat up on his knees and peered out the bottom of the window.

“Dog! Dog! Look mum! The new place’s gots a dog!” Greg shouted. His mum opened the door and he scrambled out. He ran to the chain-link fence and the dog hobbled up to greet him. He stuck his fingers through the fence and the emaciated hound licked at Greg’s little fingers. His mum walked over, “Aw, he likes me,” Greg said trying to stick his hand through one of the holes.

“Gregy…” she said pulling his hand out, “Ye, really shouldn’t stick yer hands in a dog’s face! You dunno if it’s a biter,” Greg stepped back and regarded the dog cautiously, “She’s a sweet un,” his mum said, reaching over the fence and patting the dog’s scrawny back. Greg followed suit and started eagerly trying to worm his arm through the hole in the fence once more.

His mum leaned over and put her hands on her knees and whispered into Greg’s ear, “How bout some food?” Greg beamed with enthusiasm.

The man in the woods had a pantry. Food was stacked from floor to ceiling. Greg thought his little heart was going to give out. He ate until he was full, really full. He was as happy as a lark.

They set up his telly in the front room but it was only getting one channel and the picture was all fuzzy. Greg groaned in detest. To top things off, he wasn’t allowed to sleep with his mum anymore. He had to sleep on the sofa like a ‘big boy’. It was unfair.

Then his mum started sending Greg outside during the day. He wasn’t allowed to come back in even to use the toilet. Greg would mope on the doorstep, sharing corn flakes with his dog. He named her at least twelve different names in their short time at the shack in the woods. She responded to just about anything.

Greg started hating the man that they lived with. When Greg caught ringworm the man had to hold him down and shave his head. He swatted Greg’s ears when he squirmed and threatened to cut them off if he didn't stay still.

He got mad at Greg when he pounded at the front door asking to be let in. It was worse when he tried to crawl into bed with them. He yanked Greg up by his arm and dragged him out of the room, making sure to pinch his wrist extra tight.

The man drank beer and smoked constantly. Greg would watch him in fascination. The man didn’t like all the extra attention.

“Here,” he said holding out the cigarette butt. Greg held it between his fingers, “Careful, s’hot,” Greg smelled it and grimaced. “Well?” the man asked with a drunken drawl. Greg gave it a puff and started coughing. The man gave him a sip of beer to wash it down with and Greg started coughing worse. He got mad when Greg started spitting beer on to the floor. Then Greg threw up. When he cried the man yelled.

Greg was happy when they left, this time the new man let him sit in the back with his telly. Greg wasn’t allowed to keep his dog. He waved good-bye to her until he couldn’t see her anymore and continued waving just in case she could still see him.

He started primary school under the new man’s roof. He was terrified of children at first. He’d never actually seen one in person before. He was late to start school and the other children constantly made fun of him because he couldn’t read or write. They started to make up little sing-songs about 'Chicken Leg Greg'. They noticed his clothes were always filthy and too short to cover his mid-drift.

He had a new social worker who wasn’t scary at all. She would speak with him in private and would give him chocolate ice cream as they spoke about things at home.

“Why do I need a social worker? Other kids don’t have one,” he remarked one day out of the blue.

“Some grown-ups… I can’t say who…” she cleared her throat, “Greg, I just want you to know you have people out there that care about you. We just want to know that you’re in a safe environment.”

“Course I am,” he said with a smile.

“Do you get enough to eat?”

Greg furrowed his brows and thought, _What’s enough?_

“Well, I eat at school,” he said, looking down at the cup of ice cream. He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand.

“Yes, but what about at home?”

“When there’s food, yeah,” Greg shrugged. The social worker shifted uncomfortably as Greg explained, “Sometimes the dinnerlady, she sends me home with food.”

The dinnerlady at his school absolutely adored Greg and would fill his pockets with bread and give him second helpings at lunch. Sometimes she’d even let him have third helpings. Greg didn’t understand why she looked so sad when she watched him shake with joy when he was given food.

By the time he was eight he was well versed in making food last. He’d wolf down what he could at school and he’d savour what he was given to take home. He hardly ever saw his mum, he usually came home to an empty flat. He assumed she was working but she never said anything about a job.

His mum’s bedroom door was always locked. Greg gave the door a try everyday and his curiosity started getting the better of him.

“Mum, how come your door is always locked?” he asked one day as she emerged from the bedroom.

“Pete’s got needles in there, I don’t need you gettin’ hurt, kay love?” she said with a worried face. She held his face in her hands and tilted his head up.

“Why’s he got needles then?” he asked.

“Medicine Greg, it’s jus’ our medicine, kay?”

“Why d’you need medicine? You sick or summat?”

“Come on, yer late for school,” she ushered him out the door before he could keep asking questions.

Out of the blue, they moved again. Greg was worried it was something he said to the social worker because his mother was in a panic about the social worker finding him. She left Peter and the telly behind along with the majority of their clothes. All of their belongings had to fit into a solitary rucksack.

This time there was no man, just a bus. They travelled for days. Sleeping infrequently. Greg started to panic about the new place. There didn’t seem to be one. They wandered the streets until the sun started setting and they got in a queue outside a tall brick building. His mum kept kissing the top of Greg’s head and blessing him as they entered a bare room with two beds.

They’d wake up early and start their day out on the street. His mum stopped at a petrol station and had Greg put on her coat. She ushered him in, brought him to the back of the shop, and started stuffing the inside of his coat with sweets and random tins. Her hands shook as she placed the food in the jacket.

Greg looked at her in fear. He knew stealing was wrong, people went to jail for stealing, he didn’t want to go to jail. He started to cry as his mum paid for a packet of cigarettes at the counter. The lady behind the counter offered him a free lolly and Greg swallowed back his tears and sniffled.

They sat on the kerb a few blocks down and started tearing into the food. His mum had a smug look on her face. She ruffled Greg’s hair, kissed the top of his head, and said a few prayers.

She dragged Greg around until his feet were burning in pain and she had him sit down in an alleyway to rest. She was starting to itch at her arms and was pacing nervously. They had to keep moving, she started pulling at Greg.

When they finally reached their destination she led Greg through the house and into a private garden where she gave him explicit instructions to stay put. She stayed inside with her friends and listened to loud music. Greg kicked some stones around playing imaginary football. He was starting to miss school. He’d learned to read, write, and do maths, and he really liked knowing lunch was at noon.

He nibbled on some sweets and felt terribly guilty about stealing. He didn’t want to go to jail and then Hell. He was turning nine soon and he didn’t want to be a bad guy.

His mum came to collect him when the sun was starting to set. They reached the brick building and took their position in the queue. They were beckoned forward and his mum let out a sigh of relief. She kissed Greg’s head several times. This time they were in a different room down the hall.

Greg had far too many questions for his mum but she remained silent. They carried on, much the same, for two weeks. They continued to visit different petrol stations and nick what they could without being seen. Greg stopped feeling so bad after his stomach stopped growling so loudly.

Then one night while Greg was waiting in the garden, he started seeing the sun set. His mum never stayed in the house past sun set. He started to worry.

She came bolting out of the house shouting at Greg to hurry. They had to run to the brick building.

She was pleading with the woman but she kept saying the rooms were filled. Greg looked at his mum in shock.

“Where are we gonna sleep?” he kept asking as she dragged him through the streets. She kept gritting her teeth and spitting swears. They reached a run-down building. There was a group of men standing around smoking and Greg looked at them nervously. The last place only had women and children.

“Gregy, sit,” She said pushing down on his shoulder. He clutched on to her wrist and his eyes darted nervously from the men to her.

“Mum, no,” he pleaded. The men were looking right at him. He was squatted against the wall clinging on to his mum begging her not to go in alone. She slapped him across the face and Greg was so shocked he let go.

His mother had never struck him before. He wanted to cry but the men were staring at him. He hugged his knees and waited obediently for his mum to return.

The men ignored him after a while and some turned in for the night. Greg remained, shivering in the cold; still reeling in emotional pain from being struck.

His mum returned to drag him inside. A woman stopped her from entering another door.

“Ma’am, ma’am! He’s too old, he’s gonna have to sleep with them other blokes,” his mum clutched on to Greg defensively.

“He’s just a boy!” she near screamed.

“Hey, rules is rules,” the woman tutted.

His mum stroked back his hair and wiped back his tears, “Be brave,” She said, taking the rucksack from him. She turned and left through a separate door. The woman led him through another door.

Bunk beds lined the walls, filled with men, young and old. Greg looked at the scene in wide-eyed terror. The woman gave him a rolled up mat and a wool blanket. Greg had to step over several sleeping bodies. Men kept staring at him. He felt his blood run cold. He made it to the furthest corner of the room.

There was no room to lay his mat down so he curled into a ball and drew the blanket over his head. The stench was horrid. It was the dead of winter and the room was sweltering hot. He didn’t know where these men came from or why there were so many of them. He wanted to be in the room with his mum.

When he woke up, men were rolling up their mats, hoping down from their beds, and walking through the narrow door. Greg followed closely. They were led into a room with long tables and bench seats. They turned in their mats and blankets and got in a long queue.

Greg kept standing on tip-toe trying to see his mother. The man in front of him started laughing, “Lost your mummy, have yeh?” he asked as he lumbered forward two steps.

“Yes, sir,” Greg said with a nod. The man just laughed and tapped on the man in front of him.

“This boy’s lost his mummy,” he said pointing back to Greg with his thumb. The other man leaned around to give Greg a look.

“Look at em! He’s a _teeny_ fellow.”

Word travelled fast about the lost boy. The noise became unbearably loud with incessant chatter.

A tall man with blond hair walked into the room and started snapping at the men, “Enough!”

The queue went silent and Greg was removed from the throng. He realized too late that at the end of the queue was a pot of porridge.

He struggled against the man’s grip as he was lead to the entryway. The man spoke to the woman who had greeted them last night.

“This the one?”

She looked at him with furrowed brows, “He’s the one.”

“Should we phone the police? Tell them we found him?”

Greg was led to a separate office space where he broke down into tears. Two police officers entered. He told them about everything he’d done; he detailed every item he’d stolen. They assured him he wasn’t in any trouble.

He was taken into the station where met yet another social worker. He told her everything, even the parts his mum told him not to. He was fed a sandwich and played cards with some of the police officers. One placed a cap on his head and gave him his own badge. He spoke adamantly about _Z-cars._

He was enjoying all the extra attention but then he had to leave with the social worker. Greg kept asking when he’d see his mum again and she kept ignoring the question. He was placed in a house with eleven other children, who bumped into his elbows, and liked to shout and throw things at each another.

For the most part he kept his head down and ate when he was given food. He felt like he was floating through life, just existing.

After three days he was brought into the entryway and a man walked in and immediately fell to his knees in front of Greg. He grabbed Greg’s upper arms and looked at him with a resounding amount of worry.

“His paperwork is all here.”

The man looked close to tears, “His name…” he choked as one tear rolled down his cheek.

“Gregory Lestrade.”

He removed his grip from Greg’s arms and wiped the tear off his cheek. He spoke with a funny accent and had very short hair. “Lestrade,” he said with a soft laugh.

“He’s your spitting image,” she said, handing him the papers. He looked them over fondly.

His eyes were dark brown and highly expressive, “The car is out front, if you wanna go grab your things.”

“I’m afraid he didn’t come with much Mr Lestrade. Just the clothes on his back.”

“That’s ok,” he said with a gentle smile, “We can fix that.”

Greg’s life felt surreal. He blinked and held his mouth half open for most of the car ride.

“Ever rode a train before?” the man named Lestrade asked. Greg felt light-headed. He looked at the man stupidly. Was he talking to him?

Greg fell asleep on the train ride. He wanted it all to be just a dream and he expected to wake up in his mother’s bed.

They de-boarded the train and the man kept a hand on Greg’s shoulder, leading him through the massive crowd. They reached a bench where a woman sat with two young girls in their Sunday dresses.

“Richard… the boy looks drugged!” the woman said with a moan, “What in heaven’s name were you thinking?”

“I’ve got the papers right here,” he pulled them out and shook them in his hand for her to see, “My name’s on the birth certificate even,” he put both hands on Greg’s shoulders, “Just look at him, Mary! Everyone on the train says he looks just like his father!”

“Father?” Greg asked snapping out of his daze.

“I still say we have him tested.”

“Father?” Greg asked again looking up at the man holding his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he said looking down at Greg with a smile, “I’m your dad.”

Greg must have fainted because the next thing he knew he was in the back seat of a Ford Cortina, propped up between the two girls. The adults were bickering in the front seat. Greg blinked several times and his head rolled forward.

“Sh. He’s awake,” Greg’s father shushed. They drove in silence until they reached a small terraced house. Greg remained in the car staring at the building. Greg’s father held open the door for him, “Come on, son. We’re here.”

“Where’s mum?” he asked looking at his father on the verge of tears.

“She’s getting… help,” he said with a gulp, “Come on, you’re gonna meet your gran!” he said excitedly. Greg allowed himself to be led into the house by the hand. He stepped in to see an older woman sitting on the sofa with a half-eaten greasy chicken leg in her mouth.

“S’that him?” she asked with a nod.

“Yes mom, it’s him.”

“The whore’s son?”

“Don’t…” he said pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “Please don’t call him that.”

Greg’s grandmother was anything but joyful. She’d sent his father away to board in America when he was real young. Her husband left her to live in New York and raised Greg’s father to be a true yank. His father joined the marines and met Mary in England just before his flight out to Saigon. They wrote back and forth. He was in the field when he received word she was pregnant. He returned on R&R to make her his wife.

The United States' involvement in Vietnam escalated and Greg’s father wasn’t able to return for the birth of his first daughter. Mary threatened to end their marriage and Greg’s father fell into a massive depression.

In 1962 he returned to England a decorated hero and a defeated man. He met Greg’s mother in a bar and passions sparked. Greg’s father returned home with every intention of telling his wife what he’d done but instead he was met with a grand homecoming.

In June of 1963 Greg was born in Weston-super-Mare where his mother lived with her parents. For some reason, she was kicked out when Greg was two and had to fend for herself. Greg couldn’t remember anything about his maternal grandparents.

His half-sister Trisha and he nearly shared the same birthday. She looked eerily similar to Greg, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a square chin. His older half-sister looked more like his step-mother, with blond hair and light brown eyes. Both girls wore curlers to bed and ribbons in their hair. Greg thought they looked funny.

They despised Greg the moment he entered the door. They had to share a room and Greg got his room all to himself. They were spoiled rotten and hated the extra attention their father gave to the whore’s son.

Greg started falling into the routine of three meals a day. He behaved in school and received decent marks. His step-mother was quick to chide him on his supposed petulant behaviour. His gran would chime in when she was over. Greg learned to nod and agree with a, “Yes ma’am.”

His sisters towered over him and liked to pick on him. When he was ten, they constantly berated him about how he didn’t fancy _any_ of the girls in his class. It put the idea in his head that maybe he should start looking at girls.

He began trying to chase girls down in the school yard. It started out as literal chasing and moved on to more figurative as he matured.

The young lasses found Greg quite attractive; some were very willing to be captured. Others remained more elusive. They chose other boys that weren't half as nice as Greg. Greg approached his father with the problem and Greg’s father taught him piano, assuring him it was the right move.

“Ladies love a piano man. Billy Joel? Come on!”

“Seriously, dad,” he said with a groan. He would have much rather played guitar like one older boy who he knew. Girls absolutely swooned over him when he played. Unfortunately, his dad didn't know how to play guitar and he wasn't about to pay for lessons when they had a perfectly good piano at home. 

He liked spending time with his dad even though it blew wind up his sisters’ asses. For Greg’s thirteenth birthday he received a hand-me-down BSA Rocket three. He adopted the persona instantly. He greased back his hair and put on the leathers. He was positively beaming with pride on the bike.

“Quick, removed the helmet, I wanna take a picture!” his dad shouted. Greg’s hair stood up on end and he laughed as his dad took a picture of him on his ‘new’ bike. Word spread at school and Greg was suddenly the light of every girl’s eye.

He started dating a bird with a wicked tongue. She’d straddle the front of his bike and would snog him with fervor. Kissing was fun and all but Greg wasn’t getting fireworks from any of the girls he was making out with behind the bike shed.

He tried grabbing at their boobs, feeling up their shirt while they kissed him. He tried it with gloves on and off. The girls keened at his touch but Greg felt oddly distant.

He continued learning piano. He had a talent for it, much to his sisters’ dismay. He had a lovely singing voice as well, but he was too embarrassed to sing anything above a light whisper.

He tried to get along with Trisha but she kept asking him about his mum. Greg started picking up on things. What his mum was doing while he was stuck outside all day. How they constantly had to move. The needles. Her medicine.

Greg didn’t like to think about his mum that way. The girls he was hooking up with for a quick snog were all reminding him of his mother. She would cling on to men the same way girls clung on to him. They all thought he was some bad-boy punk that they wouldn't dare take home to meet daddy.

The relationships would start out well enough; then they’d start trying to change him. Make him more presentable. He’d just tell him he didn’t want anything that serious.

He stopped slicking back his hair and just wore whatever, which had the unintentional effect of making him look more attractive. Puberty hit hard and he fell into a depression. His sisters were back on his case about how he’d only felt up a girl.

“S’none of your business,” he snapped.

“Maybe he doesn’t _like_ girls,” Barb said to Trish.

“Yeah, maybe he wants to save it for some _boy_.”

Greg found himself riding his bike more and more often to clear his mind. He worked on in constantly. He’d take his shirt off and work on banging out the dents in the gas tank. One of the boys from his school lived nearby and saw him working on his motorbike. He came rolling up on his pushbike.

“Can’t believe your dad lets you ride _that.”_

“What d’you mean?” Greg asked with a scowl, rubbing the grease off his fingers. The boy’s face seemed to drop as he looked at Greg’s shirtless form.

“It’s… uh… nothing,” The boy lost balance and had to hop on his foot to keep from falling over. Greg laughed heartily. The boy smiled coyly.

Greg gave him a ride around the block and the boy was absolutely enthralled. He called it a real thrill ride. The boy’s father was less than thrilled. He threatened to call the police and asked for Greg’s driving license.

Greg sped off before the man got a good look of his face. Greg started thinking about how the boy looked at him. He felt a warm stirring in his groin. He locked himself away in his bedroom and decided to have a wank. He thought about girls; their breasts in his hands, their lips on his, the way they swayed in his arms.

The boy’s face popped into his mind and Greg felt dirty stroking himself and thinking about how the boy pressed up against his back. He thought about other boys in the locker room shower. How his eyes would wander. His hips bucked up. My, this was an especially dirty fantasy.

He let go of his prick and looked himself over. He was stiff as a rod and his veins were sticking out clearly. He finished himself off, letting his mind think more about the boys in the shower.

He felt really strange sitting at the dinner table, thinking about what he’d just done. He excused himself early, returned upstairs, and did it again, this time only thinking about boys.

The next day at school he started feeling a nervous flutter every time he noticed a boy looking at him. He kept thinking about them in the shower. He imagined himself approaching them from behind and rubbing them down. He was starting to get turned on in public. He quickly fought down the feeling and tried to bring things back to normal.

He wanted to see the boy from his neighbourhood again. He couldn’t stop thinking about boys, all the time. He wanted to see if there was something different. Just his luck, the boy rode up on his pushbike to see Greg working on his motorcycle. Greg pulled him aside next to the bins and went for it. He kissed him just as he would any bird and the response he received was immediate.

The boy let out a shocked gasp and Greg let out a low groan. The boy ran away and Greg was left with a hard-on. He couldn’t believe it; after all those years of fearing men, suddenly he was attracted to guys.

He didn’t even know where to start trying to find a boy to kiss. He couldn’t in his right mind go and ask them, they’d think he was gay. Was he? He decided to test it out on several young women.

He was fifteen and a wild child when he lost his virginity. He found he had a strong stomach for malt whisky. He’d steal away with a girl. Sit on the beach and pass a flask between them.

His final test was with the school’s biggest tart. She had no reservations about letting her knickers drop. She guided his fingers in and Greg felt a flutter.

The ‘sex’, if you could call it that, lasted all of two minutes. Greg was beyond relieved.

However, he couldn’t stop fantasizing about boys. Sometimes when he was with girls, he was thinking about boys. He was terribly confused.

Things turned sour at home when his dad walked out on his step-mother. Greg started binge drinking in response. Why didn’t he take him with him? His step-mother couldn’t control Greg and that frightened her. Greg couldn’t control himself most of the time and that frightened him.

Then he met Henry and his life took a turn. Henry was very flamboyant and would announce to the world he was gay if he was given the stage. Greg was near doubled over in pain from how much he wanted the boy. He pined from afar until he caught three of his mates huddled in a triangle, administering a chorus line of kicks to another classmate on the ground.

Greg instantly recognized Henry’s face and came rushing to his aid. Greg was a brawler and had a strong firm build. He jumped on the biggest of the bunch and beat the tar out of his lungs. A school teacher saw the row and phoned the police.

Greg darted from the premises with Henry. They returned to Greg’s house and Greg dragged him up the stairs. He started packing furiously. Spitting out curses and damning the boys that dared hit Henry.

Henry stood silently and wrapped his arms around Greg, pulling him into a reverse hug. Greg closed his eyes and started to calm down. The boy laid a kiss on his shoulder and Greg started burning with desire. He turned abruptly, breaking free of the boy’s grip. He grabbed Henry roughly by his shirt and crushed their lips together. He fell back on to the bed and dragged Henry along with him.

Greg’s gloved hands gripped the boy’s ass firmly and he started exploring his outer thighs. He ripped off his gloves and slid his hands under the boy’s jeans, cupping his ass, guiding him to rut up against him. He wanted him closer, much closer. He wrapped his legs about the boy’s torso and really started grinding into him.

He positively ravished the boy. Greg let out small high pitched whimpers and furrowed his brows. He felt tears running down his cheeks. He’d never felt anything so right.

There was no hiding it when his step-mother burst through the door. Her expression went from seething rage to utter horror. Henry looked at her in wide-eyed terror. Greg gave her a defiant glare. He wrapped his arms around the boy’s shoulders, brought himself close, and slowly opened his mouth to suck on the boy’s neck.

His step-mother stormed out and Greg quickly scrambled, laughing like a maniac. They climbed out the window, hopped on Greg’s bike, and never looked back.

It felt so long ago that Greg had run away. Greg could hardly remember what the boy looked like.

Greg was snapped out of his daydream when he heard Sherlock’s confident footfall on the staircase.

“Hey d’you want to go out with me? Not like on a date or nothing… I mean,” Greg scratched his head nervously, “I was thinking of going out to pick up some dinner and maybe pick out a video. You know, if you want to,” Greg let out a groan, “It’s okay, I know you don’t,” he said shaking his head.

“Well actually, maybe I-”

“I know you don’t,” Greg said sweeping past him, grabbing his coat and keys.

The moment his food arrived at the chip shop, Greg started tearing into it. He didn’t want Sherlock to see him shaking while he ate. He was starving and he hated the feeling. His head started to clear and he visited Blockbuster to find a decent video.

When he returned home he immediately popped the video in and tossed Sherlock his dinner.

“What’s this?”

“Fish n’ chips. Now come on, picked this one out special,” he said with a grin. Sherlock needed a good scare and  _T_ _he Exorcist_ was just the thing.

Sherlock made it through a good portion of the film without a problem and then Linda Blair’s head spun around and he was done. Greg couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction. Sherlock let out a mouse-like squeak and ended up on the top of the sofa.

“Nothing like a good jump scare, eh?” Greg chuckled, “Come on down, film’s almost done,” Sherlock wasn’t coming down for anything, “We really should try making it to the cinema some time. Shit like this is much better in surround sound.”

“Why do you watch this... this... shit!?” Sherlock said waving his arms at the screen.

“Everyone enjoys a good scare, now and again,” Greg said with a shrug.

“What about the room with the clowns?” Sherlock asked nervously biting at his thumb.

“I was just overreacting.”

“I bet you can’t spend a whole night in the room, alone. In the dark,” Sherlock said raising his eyebrows.

“Is that a dare?” Greg scoffed, “Oh, I could totally spend the night in that room, no problem.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to,” Greg laughed.

“I’ll bet you _anything_.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Sherlock said with a wicked grin.


	16. Chapter 16

It was midnight when Sherlock crept into the room with the clowns. He held the lantern up and saw Lestrade sitting quietly in the corner, puffing away at his pipe. He had a row of empty beer bottles lined up at his side.

“You can’t drink!”

“Weren’t in the rules,” Lestrade said with a laugh.

“Wasn’t,” Sherlock corrected.

“Thought I was supposed to spend the night _alone_.”

“I thought you could use some company," Sherlock said with a diffident shrug. He walked over to take a seat next to Lestrade.

“Room’s not that creepy once you get used to it,” he pulled the pipe away from his mouth and pointed to a clown across the way, “’Cept that guy. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

“They’re just paintings.”

“Painted by the devil himself I bet," he said, lifting his eyebrows, “Bet ya I’m already possessed,” he looked at Sherlock with wide eyes, “Head’s gonna start spinning and I’ll be spewing pea soup by morning,” Sherlock grimaced at the thought. Greg tapped the ashes into the ashtray, “What’s got you so scared? Didn’t think a silly film would get you so worked up,” Lestrade said wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I don’t like it when body parts move beyond anatomical position… never have.”

Greg reached over and gently turned down the lantern until there was only a gentle hiss. The room was suddenly cast in darkness. Sherlock shivered slightly at the loss of heat. Then he felt a warm wet kiss on his neck. Sherlock shrugged away.

Lestrade laughed, “Demon clowns gettin’ to ya?” he jeered.

“Isn’t this how you attract the axe murderer? Having unmarried sex while refuting his existence?”

Lestrade pulled away, taking his warmth with him, “Who says I want to have sex with you?”

“I… your…” Sherlock had inadvertently brushed his hand across Lestrade’s crotch when he was pulling away and from what he felt, he was almost certain that’s where this was headed, “Don’t you?” the room fell silent.

Sherlock reached out into the darkness and felt nothing but air. He felt a small panic start building in his chest. He tried to listen for Lestrade’s breathing pattern, the sounds of boards creaking under him, anything to give away his location. All Sherlock could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

He was rarely frightened. He tried to rationalize the situation. He wasn’t afraid of the room, nothing could hurt him. He knew Lestrade was going to scare him; he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

_He’ll jump out of the corner of the room, maybe grab my ankle, he’s just biding his time._

As time wore on, Sherlock’s panic began to build. He resolved not to be scared. Lestrade was going to jump out at any moment and he had to be ready.

He felt a light brush on his forearm, “Yeah, very funny, Lestrade,” he reached out and fell forward. There was nothing there.

Sherlock broke into a cold sweat. He shot straight up and knocked the lantern over. He started to panic and searched blindly for the door. He heard a noise coming from downstairs. He went into a blind terror and started running along the walls, searching for the door. He tripped and fell flat on his face.

He started to scream bloody murder as he felt something run across his hand. He shrieked even louder when the bright light from a torch illuminated the room. He saw Lestrade leaning against the door jam, grinning smugly, eating a sandwich.

“You left me?” Sherlock asked aghast.

“Got hungry,” Lestrade said through a mouth full of food, “What’s the screaming bout?” he asked, smacking his lips.

“I was not _screaming,_ ” Sherlock said with disgust. He stood up and brushed his shirt clean, “I got caught on the leg of my pyjama bottoms and fell, if you must know.”

“You were running about screaming like a girly, admit it,” Lestrade illuminated the corner of the room, “All cos of a wee wittle mouse,” he said with a laugh.

Sherlock saw the mouse in the corner of the room dart off. Sherlock bolted out of the room at top speed. He leapt through the wardrobe, knocking over several hangers.

He started obsessively brushing himself off with flailing arms, “It touched me! It touched me!” he shouted. He felt a small tickling sensation on his leg. He quickly stripped of his bottoms and danced around Lestrade’s gran’s room.

He noticed Lestrade looking at him. He stopped abruptly and composed himself. He scratched at the back of his neck and tried to think of something to say.

“’Fraid of mice?” Lestrade offered.

“No… I just prefer them not crawling all over me.”

“We’ll get some traps in the morning,” Lestrade said with a content smile as he left his gran’s room.

“Wait,” Sherlock said reaching out, “Um,” He held on to Lestrade’s forearm for a moment, “May I… sleep with you tonight?”

“’Fraid the mouse is gonna come after you in your sleep?” Lestrade teased. Sherlock knitted his brows in worry and nodded. “Alright, just this once though.”

They walked across the hall to Lestrade’s room. Lestrade flipped on the lights and started turning down the bed. He threw a pillow on the floor along with the quilt.

“You’re not going to make me sleep on the floor, are you?” Sherlock asked looking over the make-shift bed nervously.

“No,” Lestrade said with a laugh, “You know mice can climb up on to beds though, right?”

“Perhaps I should stay at a hotel,” Sherlock said, wringing his hands.

“It’s just a silly mouse.”

“Yes, but there must be thousands living in the walls.”

“Yes, my gran’s place is held up with mouse catacombs and fecal matter,” Lestrade said rolling his eyes, “It’s a puny little thing.”

“Well some people don’t like living among vermin.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lestrade was getting defensive. Sherlock had struck a chord, best not to pluck it any further.

“I’m just saying I wasn’t exposed to pests at an early age.”

“And I was?” Lestrade threw a pillow at Sherlock’s chest.

“Your inert reaction to the intruder would suggest-“

“You don’t know shit, Sherlock. I didn’t grow up in the gutters, you know?” Lestrade clenched the sheets with his fists, “My mum kept me off the damned streets. You chose to roll around in filth. You’re the one that shouldn’t be bothered by a bloody rodent seeing as you are one. Fucking liberty,” Lestrade stopped and held on to the side of the mattress. He held his head in shame. He turned and looked as if he was surprised to see Sherlock was still there.

“Um… sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“What?” Lestrade asked with a confused look plastered on his face.

“I said I’m-“

“I heard what you said,” Lestrade said shaking his head and dismissing the notion, “It’s just…” he stood there with his mouth open but it seemed like he couldn’t form the words, “I’ve been apologising ever since you got here. And in all this time you’ve never once said you’re sorry to me.”

“I know…” Sherlock said with a sigh, “Should I apologise for that too?”

“Just shut up and get in bed. I’m exhausted. I’ll make sure the mouse doesn’t scamper across your face while you sleep,” Lestrade chuckled softly.

Sherlock hadn’t thought of that before. He let out a small whimper.

“Fine, we’ll share the bed. You’re not a snorer, are you?” Lestrade asked as he removed his shirt. He threw the shirt into a pile of laundry in the corner and slid under the sheets.

“I wouldn’t know if I was one,” Sherlock lay on top of the sheet, his back was rigid, and he wasn’t wearing any bottoms. It was an incredibly tiny and lumpy mattress. The ones in the nursery were far more comfortable. The bed frame creaked every time one of them moved. After four hours of staring up at the ceiling Sherlock’s mind turned off for the night. He awoke on top of Lestrade in an open armed embrace.

Lestrade cracked an eye open and mumbled with his chin pressed to his chest, “What’re you doing?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and lazily pressed a kiss to Lestrade’s lips. He still tasted of _Bohemian Scandal._ His lips were slightly tangy yet sweet. There was a little hint of cardamom on his tongue.

Sherlock felt Lestrade’s hands start running down his backside. He tensed when Lestrade grabbed his ass in both hands. Lestrade was going to be rough, he knew it. He knew exactly where he wanted Sherlock and guided him so that they were pressed together firmly, sliding against each other’s groins.

Sherlock felt a flutter of anticipation. Sex was confounding for him. He desperately wanted to have sex until he was actually having it; then he wanted it to end as soon as possible. He liked all the busy hands and tongues.

Lestrade was really sinking in the kiss. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s upper arms, right below the shoulder, and started massaging. Sherlock purred and his eyes fluttered. Lestrade had such strong hands. He felt all the tension in his arms release. His arms near buckled at the elbow.  There certainly was a lot of pulling, more than Sherlock had anticipated. He thought Lestrade would be more the ‘pretend to care’ type.

Sherlock felt the palm of Lestrade’s hand running a direct line down his chest, to his abdomen, down, down, down. Sherlock let out a strangled gasp and jerked. He started panting and wincing as Lestrade started stroking him through his pants.

Sherlock licked his bottom lip and closed his eyes. He clenched the bed sheets and let his forehead rest on Lestrade’s chest. His erection was throbbing and the head of his cock stung as it rubbed up against the fabric of his pants. Lestrade let go and Sherlock didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated.

Sherlock was preparing for what was to come next. Lestrade started pulling down his own sweats, he kicked them off his feet, and Sherlock shut his eyes and started his zen like breathing. Lestrade wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, lifted up his hips, and…

Sherlock was sent into shock. He let out a gasp when Lestrade wrapped his legs around his midsection and started grinding his ass against Sherlock’s erection.

He wasn’t expecting this at all. Lestrade didn’t match the profile of a bottom at all. Sherlock was too startled to continue.

“Wait… I-I…”

Lestrade stopped abruptly. He let go and Sherlock pulled away, “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock stood up on to his knees and started letting out deeps breaths. He ran his hands through his hair. He felt his eyes water, “I can’t,” He choked out.

“Wh-“

“I… I’m just not ready,” he said, suddenly feeling like his whole world was collapsing.

“It’s alright, no rush,” Lestrade said placing a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, giving it a reassuring rub, “D’you need me to-“

“No, no. I’m fine. It will… go away on its own.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a gentle yet nagging tone. Sherlock went to leave and Lestrade held his arm firm. Sherlock wanted to hide away in the nursery. Lestrade drew him in close and held him tight.

Sherlock felt so warm and secure. He felt pathetic. Now Lestrade would never want to be intimate with him because he bowed out. Sherlock felt like his heart was being torn out of his chest. Lestrade started stroking back his hair. Sherlock started to nod off.

When he woke up it felt like his face was super glued to Lestrade’s bare chest. He wished more than anything that he hadn’t chickened out and just went through with it. He was convinced he had missed his only chance.

He was caught off guard. No man had ever wanted him in that way. He’d hardly ever been touched before. Usually the men he was with wanted to get off and get on with their lives. It felt like Lestrade was trying to consume him. He wanted every inch of Sherlock.

_Why would a man in such a dominating position choose such a submissive role?_

Lestrade could have easily taken Sherlock and fucked him into the mattress. They probably would have both lost interest and started drifting apart shortly after. Nobody wanted to be around Sherlock for that long.

Sherlock didn’t know what he wanted anymore. He had been actively trying to seduce Lestrade and when he finally got somewhere with the man he turned everything upside down and turned Sherlock into a crumbling fool.

He needed time to think. He’d never had any inclination of actually performing the act on Lestrade, or anyone for that matter. Now that he was being propositioned, what was he supposed to do?

Lestrade started to move underneath him. Lestrade took one look at his watch and shouted, “Oh shit. M’late,” he pressed up on Sherlock, “Sorry… shit… call Mrs Hudson. I can’t drop you off today. Number’s on the fridge,” Lestrade kept repeating the mantra, “Shit, shit, shit,” as he hopped into his trousers and started throwing on his uniform.

He was out the door in a matter of seconds and Sherlock was left with the task of dialling Mrs Hudson. He gave it a few moments thought before rolling on his side and going back to sleep. The pillow still smelled of Lestrade. Sherlock let out a content sigh.


	17. Chapter 17

Greg’s day was a miserable failure from the moment he walked in the door. The Superintendent started chiding him immediately. At this rate he’d never be considered for a post in the CID. The Superintendent that was grilling him kept bringing up the Sergeant’s exam in March and how Greg was a massive disappointment to him.

“My boy, you show great promise but you _refuse_ to put in any sort of effort!” Which Greg interpreted as, ‘ _You might as well forget about the CID’._

It was near December, his two years were almost up but there were at least twenty other candidates gunning for the post opening up in April. Sally Donovan was going to apply and she was already a Sergeant.

She was slowly warming up to Greg again, but he knew she was notorious for holding grudges. Now that they were going to be competing against one another it was going to be a bloodbath; claws were going to come out and there would likely be slapping and hair pulling to get that coveted position.

Gregson was absent from orders on high. Greg was brought in for briefing where he could only half pay attention due to all the thoughts swarming in his head. On the beat he couldn’t focus at all. He patrolled Westminster blindly. Someone could have been robbing an old woman of her purse while bashing her head in and Greg wouldn’t have blinked.

When his partner spoke Greg snapped out of his daydream. Sgt Dimmock wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed but at least he was quiet. He pointed out a drunken vagrant with an open bottle of alcohol in his hand. The man was performing his own rendition of _Singing in the Rain_ while swinging around a parking meter.

Greg was astonished he hadn’t seen the man before Dimmock had pointed him out; he was kind of hard to miss. When they approached him he gave chase for a few blocks before turning himself in without violence.

It would have been a routine arrest but Greg went into la-la land again and Dimmock ended up getting hit square in the nose. If he’d been paying attention it would have saved him a mountain of paperwork and an appearance in court.

Bystanders gathered to gawk and point at the scene the drifter was making. Dimmock was a little man and had a hell of a time helping to control the arrestee with one hand holding his bleeding nose.  

_Some police work. Sally would have had this guy booked and in a cell by now._

The day only escalated from there. There was a fatal car crash involving a pedestrian and Greg was tasked with informing the deceased’s next of kin. The man’s wife had four little ones running around her, there was a lot of shouting over the noise, the form of delivery wasn’t ideal, but Greg got the message through none-the-less.

He had to stick around for ages arranging for the children to be attended to before the wife was transported to Bart’s. His ears were ringing from screaming children that didn’t seem the least bit bothered by their father’s sudden passing.

The moment he was relieved of his duties at Bart’s, he was sent to the site of a double homicide where he stood outside the ropes directing traffic for hours, while the big boys got to do the real work.

He returned home at midnight, threw himself face first on to the sofa, and groaned, “I hate my life.”

“Well you’re going to hate it more,” Sherlock sang as he waltzed out of the kitchen.

“Why... what’d you do?” Greg asked with a whine.

“It isn’t what I’ve done... for once,” Sherlock said offhandedly, “Your sister is in town.”

“Shit... wait... how do you know?”

“She came by looking for you.”

“You didn’t answer the door, did you?”

“No, I hid away while she circled the house trying to look for a way in. You're lucky you don't have a cat flap, she likely would have tried to shove one of the children in.”

“Bloody, fuck,” Greg said pressing his face into the sofa’s cushions, “She’s going to be a delight tomorrow.”

“You’re not working?”

Greg shifted up on to his elbows to look at Sherlock, “I told you, several times, I'm on holiday this next week.”

“Oh,” Sherlock looked guilty of something.

“Problem?”

Sherlock thought it over, “No, no problem.”

“Did you make it over to Mrs Hudson’s today?” Greg asked, already knowing the answer. Sherlock shook his head, “Did you at least give her a ring, like I told you?” Sherlock remained silent, “Sherlock,” Greg moaned into the cushion, “Get a pen.”

“Why?”

“Gonna bloody stab my eyes out!” he snapped, “No, I need to write out a list. There’s ten million and one things to do round here and... I give up!” he threw his face into the pillow and attempted to smother himself.

“Bad day?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Need me to make toast?”

Greg let out a sigh, “That’s a kind offer, really, thank you. I just want to curl up into a ball and die.”

“I caught the mouse,” Sherlock said with a small grin.

“Yeah?”

“I put an alley-cat to work on it. He turned up with three more and an old sock.”

“Sherlock... seriously? What are you going to do bout the cat?”

“I thought I’d put a stray dog to work on that,” Greg groaned and Sherlock gave him a look of empathy, “I’m only kidding. I let it out after he had his fill, no harm done,” he laid a hand on the nape of Greg’s neck and Greg eased into his touch. Sherlock sat on the edge of the sofa and started massaging his neck and shoulders.

Greg held back from letting out small moans, the boy’s fingers were magic. Sherlock had never shown an iota of empathy before, Greg remained suspicious of the sudden change.

Sherlock had really matured under his care but he seemed to still of streaks of baddie in him. Greg thought at times it was positively foolish to put all his trust in an eighteen year old junkie.

He heard the Velcro on his stab vest rip open. Sherlock helped him roll over and remove his vest. His nimble fingers went straight to Greg’s belt and started undoing his uniform trousers. In a matter of seconds he was on top of Greg actively molesting him.

Sherlock’s skin was incredibly soft and smooth. Greg was less pushy and needy this time around, he allowed Sherlock to take the lead. He quickly learned Sherlock was a bit of a biter. Greg could gather that Sherlock was highly inexperienced in the snogging department and could use a refresher on technique. Sherlock was obviously enjoying it though. He was desperately rutting against Greg’s thigh and making the most obscene of noises.

Sherlock broke away suddenly and pressed up on Greg’s chest, “That thing... th-that thing you offered to do last night... i-i-is...” He let out a heavy breath, he was shaking at the elbows, “Is that offer s-still valid?” he finished with a false sense of composure. Greg mindlessly nodded. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

Greg reached up, grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulled him down, and demonstrated some proper snogging technique. Sherlock ground up against him shamelessly. Then he desperately tried to pull away, scrambling to break free of Greg’s grip. He had a terrified look in his eye. Greg recognized it instantly. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock and pulled him in as close as humanly possible and went in for the kill, grinding himself against Sherlock's prominent erection.

Sherlock let out several short grunts followed by a loud, “Unh.” Sherlock’s legs quaked and he was purple in the face from holding his breath. Greg couldn’t hold back his smug grin. He nibbled at the shell of Sherlock’s ear while he recovered from shock. When Greg pulled away Sherlock was still panting with his mouth wide open, a look of wide-eyed astonishment was painted on his face. He had his eyes open but it was likely he couldn’t see.

Greg hummed with delight, “That good?” Sherlock closed his mouth slowly, but it didn’t seem to want to close all the way. “Been a while?” Greg ventured to guess, “Sherlock?” he placed a hand on Sherlock’s upper arm which tensed at his touch, “You okay?”

Sherlock collapsed on top of him. He was complete dead-weight on top of Greg. Greg couldn’t help but brush his face against Sherlock’s hair and cuddle in close, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Greg was startled awake by the sound of the doorbell. His eyes shot open and he realized the room was flooded with daylight. He looked to the boy on top of him and was struck with horror.

“Sher-Sherlock! My sister’s here!” He whisper yelled. Sherlock lifted his face up with a groggy moan.

“Tell ‘er to piss off,” he said, sinking his face back into Greg’s shirt and tie.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to hide, _please,_ ” he begged.

There was a loud pounding at the door; he could hear his nephew whining.

“Greg! Open up! I know you’re in there!” his sister Trish was going to bring in a battering ram and tear down the door if he didn’t get up soon.

Greg rolled Sherlock off himself and he fell on to the sofa limply with his foot dangling over the side, “Sherlock, please,” he whispered in desperation. There was another loud knock, “Hold up!” he shouted. He grabbed the crook of Sherlock’s elbow and lifted him into a sitting position.

Greg bent at the knees, threw Sherlock over his shoulder, and fireman carried him up the stairs. The pounding became incessantly louder as Greg started hauling Sherlock up the stairs, “Jesus! Would you lay off the door! I ain’t decent!”

Sherlock groaned in detest at Greg’s use of the word ‘ _a’int’_. He placed him down gently and Sherlock wavered on his feet.

His hair was deshevelled and he looked like a right mess. Sherlock stumbled and fell into the wall.

“Get into the wardrobe and don’t make a peep. I swear to God if you blow my cover-“

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said swatting at Greg’s hand. Greg went to turn and Sherlock caught him by the sleeve of his shirt.

“What?”

“Mm, kiss?” Sherlock mumbled. Greg pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock pulled away with a smug grin. Sherlock turned and retreated into his gran’s room while Greg flew into his room and started stripping and pulling on clothes at the same time. He rushed down the stairs while buttoning his jeans and pulling up the zip.

He took a moment to turn on his charm before opening the door, “Trish!” he said brightly and welcomingly, "What a surprise,” he looked at the children who were carrying two suitcases each, “Whoa, that’s a quite a lot of luggage you've got there, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were planning on moving in.”

“Greg, we need a talk,” Trish looked at him sternly. Greg’s face dropped, “Children, go put your cases in Uncle Greg’s room.” The children trudged forward obediently and started to climb the stairs.

Once they were out of earshot Greg pulled his sister aside, “What happened to the house?”

“Danny got it in the divorce,” Trisha said with a defeated sigh. She walked over and plopped down on the sofa. She put an arm on the arm-rest and started rubbing her forehead, “We had to stay in a bloody hotel last night, Greg,” She whined.

“I’ll write you a cheque, I’m sorry, really I am. I was held up at work. I didn’t make it home til midnight,” Greg went straight into the kitchen and withdrew his cheque book from the drawer, “How much do I owe you?”

“Five hundred.”

Greg popped his head out of the kitchen and gave her a look, “Bloody hell. What, did you stay at the Ritz?”

“We came all the way from Leicester, by train, had to stay in a bloody hotel because you weren’t home.”

“Not, my, fault,” Greg punctuated, “Five hundred is a lot of money, Trish. You’re going to have to use your allotments wisely-“

“Greg, don’t tell me how to spend _my_ money, you know I hate that.”

Greg ran his hand through his hair and started shaking his head, “I cannot give you the full five-hundred. Would you be able to get by with two-fifty?”

“For now,” She sighed heavily. He finished writing out the cheque and handed it over to her.

“You should probably look into council housing, food aid, welfare, there are resources out there, I could get you set up with the right people-“

“Greg, we’re not _desperate_.”

“Are you going to receive any form of child support, alimony, anything?”

“I… yeah… I guess I am.”

“Didn’t you file the worksheets, some kind of parenting plan?”

“The lawyers took care of it.”

“Did you _read_ the papers you were signing?” He asked in shock. His sister remained silent, “Christ, you talk to me about being irresponsible. You could be signing your kids lives away and not even know it!”

“I’m sure my attorney would have said _something._ ”

“Is the divorce finalized then?” he asked and she looked at him blankly, “Have you received a decree absolute?” she continued to stare blankly, “How d'you not know?"

“As I said, I have the lawyers deal with it.”

“They don’t sign the papers!” Greg was becoming beyond frustrated, “Who says it’s his house?”

“He did.”

“Danny did?”

“No, the court did.”

“So you’ve been to court.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your papers?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

“At mum’s.”

“Call her.”

“Why?”

“Because if the divorce isn’t finalized you can still fight for the damned house.”

“He can have it for all I care,” She said, crossing her arms like a child.

“You’d rather be _homeless,_ with two children?” Greg grabbed the piano bench and dragged it over to sit across from her. He placed his hands on his lap and let out a sigh, “Listen.”

“I’m tired of listening. This house is as much mine as it is yours.”

“Not _this_ again,” he threw his hands up into the air, “You don’t _want_ this house. There’s no room.”

“No, but I could renovate it, turn it into two flats, be able to rent it out-“

“With what money?”

“Barb and I-“

“Oh! So it all makes sense now! You two are in on this together!”

“We’d be more than happy to let you rent out one of the flats.”

“Trish, I can’t be bothered with this.”

She looked at him sternly, “Don’t tell me you’ve got a lodger, we _said-“_

“I know and I don’t.”

Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she sniffed the air, “Jesus, have you been smoking in here?” she asked. Greg looked at his hands, “Great, the sofa reeks,” she looked towards the piano and telly, obviously pricing them in her head.

“Gran smoked in here as well,” he said sheepishly.

“It _stinks,_ Greg. I mean _really_ stinks,” she gave him ‘the look’.

“It’s just tobacco.”

She cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips, “Yeah, sure.”

“Trish! I’m a cop for Christ’s sake!” he shouted with an indignant whine.

She rolled her eyes and stood up with a huff. She crossed her arms and continued inspecting the place.

“Why don’t you stay with your mum?” Greg asked, dragging the piano bench back to the piano.

“She’s out of the country.”

“Doing what?”

“What is this, an interrogation? I said she’s out of the country.”

Greg shook his head, “How long are you looking at staying?”

“Eight days.”

Greg contemplated throwing a temper tantrum, “Eight days? That’s my whole holiday! I need time off!”

“Oh and God forbid you spend your time off with your family.”

“Family? Family! Where were you when I needed a place to stay? I’ll have you remember, you turned me away in my hour of need.”

“I was with Danny then! He said ‘no’,” She shrugged up her shoulders, “I would’ve let you stay,” Greg could only roll his eyes. “Besides, this house is only partly yours. Barb and I let you live here after gran died because you had nowhere else to go.”

“She’s dad’s mum! We share the same dad, remember? She’s as much my gran as she is yours.”

“ _Was_ Greg. Gran _was_ dad’s mum. But she preferred our mum. She’d want the place to go to someone who’d make use of it.”

“What am I doing?” Greg said motioning his arms to his surroundings, “I bloody live here! You’re looking to turn it into some sort of B&B!”

“Flats, Greg. We’re looking to turn it into a mansionette.”

“Mansionette, it’s a shit hole! It’s perhaps in the worst neighbourhood in Brent. Places round here don’t go for much, you’d be putting your money into a pit,” he paused a moment, “No, wait you’d be fine. It’s _Barb’s_ money.”

“I wasn’t the one who ran away,” she glowered at him, “Then you come back into the picture, right before gran dies, and somehow the people who loved her and cared about her for _years_ get shafted?”

“Gran and I roomed together for _years_ while I got my life back together. I had to put up with her. You were in Leicester! She had some volunteer come and check to see if she was breathing each morning. I gave her her damned insulin every day.”

“Yeah, we all know you’re a bloody saint, Greg.”

“And I didn’t run away, your mum threw me out after dad left.”

“You were buggering a schoolmate! While we were all home!”

“I wasn’t _buggering_ a schoolmate,” he let out a heavy sigh, “Your mum makes it out to sound like I was having at it. We were just kissing.”

“Greg, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” He looked away and felt his cheeks flush with colour. The children came creeping down the stairs. Both of them had bright blond hair and sharp blue eyes. They looked nothing like their mother with their round faces and pale skin.

They did take after their mother in the attitude department. Both were enormous brats. They had been pulled from school and were privately tutored so the family could travel more. Greg was secretly delighted that the kids were going to get a good cold hard look at the real world.

“We’re bored,” Mary whined. Her younger brother Joseph was sighing dramatically and pressing his forehead against the banister.

“Well, I got presents for you last Christmas, and-“ _Your mum’s a bitch and wouldn’t let me give em to you,_ “Never got round to sending em,” he finished with a grin. He knelt and started digging through the entertainment centre under the telly for the presents, “Joe, the Rubik’s cube on the coffee table is part of your gift,” his mum picked it up and gave the present a snide look as she passed it off to her son.

“What do you say, Joseph?” she asked.

“Thanks?” he said looking at the cube with disappointment.

“Also got you these,” Greg pulled out a set of handcuffs and a baton. The boy’s eyes lightened up.

“Greg, we don’t allow the children to play with weapons.”

The boy frowned.

“How’s a set of handcuffs a weapon?”

“Greg, they’re my children.”

Greg let out a sigh, “Sorry, Joe,” Greg stood up and whispered to Trish, “Ninja Turtles?” she shook her head, “Serious?” he asked with a grimace, “And I suppose Polly Pockets would incite a riot as well?”

“I don’t want her losing the small pieces.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Greg pulled out the packs of Polly Pockets and handed them off to Mary before her mother could say a word, “Go wild,” Mary ran off up the stairs.

“Mummy,” Joseph whined holding the Rubik’s cube. Greg leaned down to grab the last present quickly. He held it behind his back and grinned at his sister.

“Gregory, let me see,” she commanded. He shifted to stand by the stairs and motioned for Joseph to grab the box between the slats on the stairs. Joseph gasped when he saw what it was, grabbed it, and ran full speed up the stairs, “Greg! What did you just give him?”

“Nothing,” he said with an impish grin.

“ _Greg_ ,” She said through clenched teeth.

“Oh come on, let em live a little.”

“What the hell did you give my baby?”

“Game Boy,” he said with a guilty little frown. Trisha near screamed with fury, “It’s just Tetris! It’s not going to rot his brain out of his head.”

“You always do this,” she said throwing her hands in the air, “Undermine my authority; try get the kids to like you-“

“What’s wrong with that?”

“They like _you_ , better than _me._ ”

“Nonsense,” he heard the kids start to fight upstairs followed by the classic ‘ _Mine, Mine!’_

“See what you did?” his sister marched up the stairs to defuse the situation, i.e. make it worse by taking all the new toys away. She stormed into her gran’s former room and started shouting incoherent half-swears, “Greg!” she shrieked.

He ran up the stairs after her and entered the room to see her fuming with anger, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I moved some stuff.”

“Some? Some! There’s nothing _left_.”

“I put the sentimental things and anything of value in a box in my room. The rest of the stuff, charities wouldn’t even take!”

“It wasn’t yours to give away!”

“You _wanted_ a tonne of old lady clothes and plastic elephants?”

“No… but how do I know you didn’t go and sell her valuables? Her jewelry?”

“I kept all her jewelry and it’s _plastic_. It’s a bunch of junkie costume jewelry.”

She went to open the armoire and Greg placed a hand against the door.

“Greg,” she hissed. Greg said a small prayer. She swung the doors open, “What’s all this!?” she shouted in disbelief. “Jesus Christ! Chanel? Dolce? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Greg felt uncomfortably warm standing in front of the wardrobe with a gaping hole in the back of it, “It’s um… not mine.”

“Who’s is it then?” she looked at him with a scowl, “Oh, don’t tell me.”

“He’s not living with me.”

She looked at the bed with disgust, “Yeah, I can see why you’d need the room with the bigger bed,” she looked at him once more with a grimace, “So gross, Greg. Really. I don’t want him round the children while we’re here.”

“Gay’s not catching.”

“Greg, you used to like _girls._ ”

“You used to like _Danny,"_ and with that, the conversation was over.

Trish left to settle in. They set up the sofa bed for the children who looked at the paper thin mattress in disgust. Greg was tempted to offer up the demon clown room as an alternative. He had to keep the rooms a secret or they’d be up in arms and the intruders would be staying much longer than eight days.

While Trish and the kids were out shopping, Greg got a hold of Mrs Hudson and tried to make up some sort of excuse for Sherlock’s absence. She became worried with Sherlock’s health and he had to level with her and explain that Sherlock was living under his roof. She was a lot more understanding than Greg would have ever thought.

She assured him that she could manage over the next couple days without Sherlock while things got sorted with their living situation.

“I just don’t know what to do Mrs H. My sisters are really at my throat about selling the place.”

 _“Constable, if you ever need a place, I’ve got plenty_.”

“Ta, but I think I’ve got things handled… for now.”

He was kept on the phone for another hour listening to her babble on about her sister’s friend’s daughter’s friend’s niece’s cousin (from another marriage) having the same problem. Her story had no real resolve and his head was left spinning.

His sister returned from the store and Greg groaned inwardly. He was wondering if he’d ever get to see Sherlock.

The kids started carrying in sacks and sacks full of groceries.

“What’s all this?” Greg asked in astonishment. His sister pulled out his card and returned it to him.

“Your cupboards were practically bare, the children _need_ to eat.”

“Yeah I know… but… how much was all this?”

“Just under three hundred.” She said with a shrug.

“Thr-th-three hundred?” Greg’s jaw dropped. He grabbed the receipt.

_No! Over three hundred! Three hundred and twenty-four pounds!_

“I can’t afford all this!” Greg said. He looked at his sister who wasn’t carrying anything, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s it.”

“Wh-what? Three hundred… what did you _get_?”

“Oh, you know the price of food these days.”

“Yeah but…” he started searching through one of the bags, “What the hell is this? Crab? Three pounds of it!” he let out a shocked gasp, “Twenty-five quid? You serious?”

“I thought we’d celebrate our arrival,” She snatched the bag away.

“By sending me to the poor house?”

“Greg, don’t be such a drama queen.”

“It’s… it’s… twenty five bloody pounds for a bloody crustacean!”

“Language,” She snapped. The children set the groceries on the floor and flipped on the telly. Greg turned to retreat up the stairs, “I could use some help, Gregory,” Trish said with a snide tone. He turned around and marched obediently into the kitchen to put away the food in the cupboards.

_Oh, Russian caviar, lovely. At least she picked up the staples, champagne, caviar, and crab._

The children started whining about there being nothing on the telly. The children had satellite at home and were used to having five hundred channels and nothing to watch, not twenty-two channels and nothing to watch. Their mum had taken away their toys so there was nothing to do but bang on the piano and make Greg grit his teeth.

After an over-priced dinner of which he had a meager portion and had to split his crab with the children who wanted more, he headed upstairs, locked the door, and fell on to the bed.

Sherlock burst out of the wardrobe and pounced on Greg, pinning his arms above his head. “I thought they’d _never_ let you go,” he growled as he smothered Greg with a thousand tiny kisses, which made Greg giggle.

“Sh, they’ll hear you,” Greg laughed, pushing Sherlock away.

“I feel like a fugitive.”

Greg smiled up at him and rubbed Sherlock’s thighs, “Missed you,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Don’t give me that,” he gave him a light slap on the thigh, “You practically tackled me just a moment ago.”

“You weren’t locked away all day.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t have to deal with my sister,” there was a loud knock on the door and Sherlock jumped off to hide in the wardrobe once more. Greg groaned and opened the door. Joseph held a toothbrush in hand and was looking up at him questioningly.

“Who was you talking to?”

“Erm… just a posh alien what lives in my cupboard.”

“Oh… is he… a good alien?”

“It… aliens are gender neutral.”

“Oh,” Joseph said looking around, “Can I meet it?”

“Your mum told me I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. She likes to suck the fun out of things.”

“Yeah,” Joseph said brushing his molars, “Gah nigh.”

“Night,” Greg said with a small wave. He shut the door gently and locked it. He went to the armoire and opened it to see Sherlock’s look of disapproval.

“Posh alien?”

Greg shrugged, “He was gonna come sniffing round eventually. Thought I might as well throw him off your scent.”

“Little nazi children.”

“Could spray some lemongrass on the cupboard, worked on those nazi dogs in World War II.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face dropped.

“Jews used to light these lemongrass candles, citronella or summat. Dogs hate the stuff,” his face turned at Sherlock’s expression. “Kind of random, I guess.”

“No… no,” the gears in Sherlock’s mind were obviously turning, “What’s today?”

“Um… Saturday, why?”

“No reason,” Sherlock dismissed him with his hand and withdrew into the wardrobe. Greg shut the doors and decided to give Sherlock his space while he was being erratic. He shut out the lights, stripped down to his pants, and slid in under the sheets.

Greg was in the middle of a decent dream when he felt an arm on his. He turned and felt Sherlock curled up against him. He looked at the clock.

_It’s near three. We have got to start doing this stuff at a decent hour._

Sherlock roused from his light nap and started into snog mode. Greg broke away to whisper, “My sister’s cross the hall; we can’t make a lot of noise,” Sherlock hummed against his lips and he assumed that meant he was acknowledging his request. Sherlock pulled him in tight. He was also stripped down to his pants.

Greg felt the heat from Sherlock’s breath on his neck.

“No marks, I mean it,” Greg warned with a whisper. He actually felt Sherlock smile against his neck. Sherlock ran a line of kisses down his throat, to his collar bone, down his sternum…

“Don’t you dare,” Greg said with a pathetic whimper. Sherlock paused, wetted his lips, and laid another kiss lower on Greg's ribs, “Sherlock I mean it,” Sherlock looked up at him innocently. The pale moon light made Sherlock’s eyes glow a supernatural green colour, “Don’t.”

Sherlock looped his fingers inside Greg’s pant’s elastic band. He slowly started to ease them down.

Greg completely lost his resolve when he felt the warm wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth around the tip of his cock. He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. Greg felt his lower half tense up as Sherlock sucked hard. It was an intense stinging pleasure that caused him to say silent prayers. Sherlock let go and Greg let out a sigh of relief.

He started into a sloppy slurp and jerk, not an entirely unpleasant experience but he was definitely using more hand than mouth. After about five minutes he could tell Sherlock was getting frustrated as he was trying to get him off quickly in his hand. Greg’s erection started fading and he could almost feel Sherlock’s disappointment.

He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock took the hint. He pulled away and let out a sigh.

“You’re going to say it’s you not me,” Sherlock said with a heavy sigh.

“Nah,” Greg said, sitting up. Sherlock hung his head in shame. Greg placed both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, “I just like it a certain way is all,” Sherlock looked up at him with a curious gaze, “I’ll show you,” Sherlock looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“What?”

“Lay back,” Greg pushed gently on Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock started shaking as he laid back. He breathed nervously and licked at his bottom lip.

“You ever…” Greg looked at Sherlock who was on the verge of a panic attack, “Relax, feels real good, I promise,” Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, “I don’t bite,” Greg said with a soft chuckle.

Greg leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He stroked back Sherlock’s hair and felt Sherlock ease into his touch.

He stacked their lips together and eased his palm down to cup Sherlock’s bulge. Sherlock started to harden in his hand. Sherlock was radiating heat and shaking with nerves. Greg laced the fingers on his free hand with Sherlock’s.

Greg broke away from the embrace and planted a firm kiss under Sherlock’s earlobe and whispered, “We don’t have to-“

“I want to,” Sherlock corrected quickly. Greg chuckled and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s neck. Greg sat up, released Sherlock’s hand, took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

“Condom.”

Sherlock blinked and drew up on to his elbows, “Huh?”

“I trust you, Sherlock… I just… Safety…” He said with an embarrassed cough. Sherlock drew up into a seated position, “You ever use one before?” Sherlock’s eyes darted away. Greg reached out on to the side table and grabbed his wallet. He withdrew a condom packet, “Spread em, and don’t judge me for what I’m about to do.”

Sherlock peeled off his underwear and gently laid them off to the side. Greg grabbed Sherlock by both sides of his face and smashed their lips together and dove into desperate, wet, hard, open-mouthed kissing. Sherlock’s moans turned into desperate whines. He’d save ‘love-making’ kisses for later, these were pure ‘fuck me’ kisses. Sherlock responded very well and was standing at full attention within moments.

“Like said, don’t judge.”

Sherlock gave him a queried look as Greg ripped open the packet, pinched the tip of the condom and bent over to covertly place the rubber inside his mouth. He steadied Sherlock’s cock in one hand, lined up, and gently went down on him. The condom unrolled easily and with one seamless roll. Greg couldn’t help but grin.

_Now he’ll think I’m a total slut._

Sherlock looked down and was completely stunned. Greg grimaced at the bitter tang of latex in his mouth. He leaned back down to run his tongue from root to tip. He reached a hand up to stroke up Sherlock’s abs and Sherlock started keening at his touch. Sherlock leaned back and started relaxing.

Greg's free hand ventured down to Sherlock’s balls to caress them as he gently extended his middle fingers to stroke his perineum. He pressed suddenly and Sherlock jerked up and into his awaiting mouth. Sherlock’s hips canted and bucked. He bit back moans and Greg started humming and taking him deeper.

Sherlock started panting and digging his fingers into Greg’s hair. Greg pulled away to stroke teasingly.

“Good, eh?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly, he laid down flat and Greg returned to fondling him, sucking, and running a sensual hand up Sherlock’s chest to tease at one of his nipples. It took a hell of a lot of dexterity and Sherlock was greatly appreciative. The one benefit of being a former circus clown, Greg knew how to juggle balls.

Sherlock was damned close going by the way he was willing Greg to speed up. Greg pulled away, “Say my name.”

“Hunh?” Sherlock asked, looking down. He wriggled his hips in silent desperation.

“Say my name,” Greg said with a wicked grin.

“L-Lestrade?” Sherlock ventured. Greg withdrew the hand that was teasing Sherlock’s nipple and stopped playing with his balls. Sherlock started whining. Greg walked up on his hands until he was face to face with Sherlock.

“What’s my name?”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck and tried to kiss away the question. Greg moved his lips away.

“I know you know it. What’s my name?” He grabbed Sherlock's cock firmly and started stroking. He brought Sherlock right to the edge and let go.

Sherlock near screamed, “Greg, Greg, Greg, it’s Greg,” he ended with a pathetic whimper. Greg started stroking once more, picking up the pace, and Sherlock thrust his hips in response. He felt Sherlock’s member swell and pulsate in his hand. He let go once more.

Sherlock started thrusting into air as he let out a high pitched whimper.

“Please,” he begged.

“Please what?”

“Please, Greg.”

“Please Greg what?”

“Mm, let me… _come,_ ” The word rolled off his lips with such sensuality Greg felt his own cock twitch. He realized he was getting off on this. He looked down at himself and was able to make out the in the faint light that he had a hard-on.

He brought himself closer, bending on to one elbow, and started rutting up against Sherlock. He brought them both into one hand and started really going at it, letting himself go. His brain went numb and he started to black out. He was overwhelmed, rubbing against the slippery latex surrounding Sherlock's firm cock. He started grunting with frustration as the pressure started building.

Sherlock had his mouth wide open but no sounds were coming out, he was in absolute ecstasy, approaching the big ‘o’. Greg started to feel the ratchet tightening, he was getting closer and closer, he felt the start of his release, a rush of endorphins swept over him. He was so damned close when he felt an overwhelming possession consume him. He leaned in and whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “ _Who’s your daddy_?”

Sherlock responded with a loud gasp and a scream that could have woken up half of London if Greg hadn’t stifled him with his hand. It was truly a sight to behold and Greg’s brain went primal with carnal desire as he descended into his own release. He felt the sputtering rush of white hot release and was quick enough to catch it in his hand.

The bedroom door quaked at the hinges as a loud pounding sound filled the room.

“Greg!” the shriek from the other side of the door was unmistakably Trish’s. Greg’s dopey brain couldn’t form a coherent thought as he looked down at a debauched Sherlock.

He started wiping his come off on Sherlock’s discarded pants. “Just a moment!” Greg shouted with an indignant girlish squeak. Trish started pounding on the door again, “Hold on!” He grabbed his own pants and slid them up. He bolted off the bed and grabbed his jeans. He slid them on and turned to see Sherlock was in the wardrobe.

Sherlock threw his mobile phone to Greg who looked at it and gave him a questioning look.

_What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?_

Sherlock disappeared and Greg let out a deep breath and opened the door. Trish stood out in the hallway fuming.

“ _Greg!_ What the hell-”

Greg held up the phone, “I just… I was… I just got off the phone with my boyfriend.”

His sister gave him a look of pure disgust and Greg held back an impish grin.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was practically beaming with pride when he handed Jim the shampoo bottle, the conditioner, the candle, and several small cosmetics all marked with the same label _מאָריאַרטי_. Jim looked it over questioning, he opened the shampoo bottle, gave it a sniff. He looked over the Yiddish label.

“Erm… White Lady?” Jim’s nose wrinkled in disgust, “I don’t see-“

“You see, but you don’t _observe,"_ Sherlock twisted the bottle and pulled down to reveal the hidden compartment. Jim squealed with delight. “I’ve improved on your archaic model,” he waved the bottle in Jim’s face, “Citronella oil, repells insects, Nazis, and most importantly _dogs_.”

“Prove it,” Jim said with a lovely little gasp.

“Get me a dog.”

Jim rushed out to sweet talk his neighbour into lending him her toy poodle. The poodle bounded towards Sherlock and instantly changed direction when it caught whiff of the candle burning on the side table. Jim’s smile was wicked.

“We could transport tonnes!” Jim said with a shriek, “Oh, Sherlock,” Jim said with an erotic moan. Jim’s eyes were as dark as ever. His smile was positively demonic. He closed his eyes and kissed the bottle of shampoo, “Bless you, Sherlock. Bless you,” He stroked the bottle. Then he looked at it sadly, “It’s a shame you’re taken, Sherlock. We’d make the most beautiful arse babies,” Sherlock choked on air, “Whoops, did I say that out loud?” Jim snorted, “Yeah, this shit’s brilliant, Sherlock,” he threw the bottle on to Sherlock’s lap, “Shame we can’t use it.”

“Wait, why?”  

“There’s still that _teensy_ problem with the mole that you’ve neglected to pay attention to while I was away.”

“Who says I neglected to pay attention to the matter?”

“So you’ve made progress?” Jim took a seat across from Sherlock on the other sofa.

“In a loose sense.”

“You either did or you didn’t, Sherlock. Don’t yank my dick,” he scowled at Sherlock, “You _tease,_ ” he said in a sensual false baritone.

“I know your mole resides in the London area, is white, and has been with you for five years.”

“Oh,” Jim sat up, “That…” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as Jim stared at him like a hawk circling his prey, “Do you _really_ have to be exclusive with your beau?” Sherlock blushed. Jim shook his head slowly, “You have really got to stop flaunting your sex around me. It’s driving me wild.”

“I’ll try stop, sir.”

Jim closed his eyes, titled back his head, and groaned. His eyes fluttered and he licked his lips, “Stop, you’re killing me. Go, go. Good boy. You’ve done daddy proud.”

Sherlock’s blood turned to ice.

_He doesn’t know about Lestrade. He can’t.  
_

Jim smirked, “I’ll have the car drop you off at home.”

“No need,” Sherlock said jumping up from his sofa.

“I _insist,_ ” Jim said with a small lizard-like hiss.

Sherlock was sweating bullets when he got into the back of the car.

“Address?” The driver asked rolling down the privacy window.

“221-B Baker Street,” Sherlock blurted out. He wouldn’t lead Jim to Lestrade. He didn’t know how he’d take to him being intimate with a cop. It likely wouldn’t end well.

Jim was getting increasingly jealous; his text messages were becoming more flirtatious. He was highly possessive of Sherlock.

Sherlock marked his paranoia off as a side-effect of the 7%. Sherlock shook nervously. He licked his upper lip and looked over his phone’s messages. Jim had called him his sexy detective, his pet, his machine, and Sherlock had to delete every message in case Lestrade got a hold of his phone again.

When the car reached Baker Street, Sherlock hopped out and ran into Mrs Hudson’s flat. She looked up at him in surprise. He was a sweaty and shaking mess. Sherlock grabbed a chair and sat down.

“Sherlock…” Mrs Hudson looked at him nervously.

“I’m fine… it’s fine… talk!” he near shouted.

“Are you in trouble? Do I need to call the Constable?”

Sherlock shook his head. He bit at his lip. Then he burst into tears. Mrs Hudson swooped down like a mother hen and hugged him tight. Sherlock put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth.

“D’you mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cried out. He ran his hands down his face. Then he felt numb. He distanced himself from the situation, sucked in a deep breath, and carried on, “My apologies, I didn’t mean to…” he looked up into Mrs Hudson’s sad eyes, “I’m fine. It really is silly.”

“Do tell,” Mrs Hudson grabbed a chair and held Sherlock’s hand, “Is this about the house?” Mrs Hudson said with a nod because she really thought it was.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said with a reassuring grip.

“I told the Constable, if you ever need a place to stay-“

“Why would I need a place to stay?” Sherlock looked into her eyes. Her face dropped. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, “When did he call?”

“Few hours ago, Sherlock. He was looking for you… I thought…”

Sherlock groaned, “No,” he put his head in his hands, “How? Why? No, shut up. I want to hear it firsthand,” he stood up and let out a sigh.

Sherlock rode the tube; he was sandwiched in between snot-nosed children and a sickly man.

_Just returned from Southeastern Asia. Yellow fever. Oh dear God, this is how I die._

Sherlock drew up his shoulders and held his breath for the duration of the train ride. He ran out of Dollis Hill station panting for ‘fresh’ air. He breathed in the London smog and felt his chest sink.

He walked to the house and saw Lestrade sitting out front smoking away at a cigarette.

“Sherlock, I was worried sick,” he stood up off his Army kitbag.

“Am I all packed as well?” Sherlock grimaced. Lestrade had been crying, his eyes were puffy and red, his cheeks were stained with salty tears.

“I didn’t want to leave until you came back.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked with an exacerbated sigh. He could venture a guess but he wanted to approach the matter as sensitively as he could manage.

“She… there _was_ a will. Written… God near fifteen years ago,” Lestrade looked at his hands, “She left everything… everything… to my dad,” his bottom lip quivered. Sherlock knitted his brows.

_This is the appropriate time to hug._

Sherlock stepped through the gate and wrapped his arms around Lestrade, giving him an awkward stiff hug. Lestrade didn’t seem to mind as he melted into Sherlock, crying into his shoulder.

“They didn’t even… they didn’t even…” he choked.

“Sh,” Sherlock hushed and held him closer. He could see his sister peering out the window. How he wanted to just chin her. He pulled Lestrade away and held him by his shoulders, “He passed away and they didn’t give you the decency to tell you.” Lestrade nodded and wiped away his tears, “His next of kin is your step-mother and…” Lestrade burst into tears once more and Sherlock looked up at the sky.

_Why me?_

“He’s dead, Sherlock,” Greg cried heavily into Sherlock’s shoulder.

_You haven’t seen him in years, what difference does it make?_

Sherlock kept his cold thoughts to himself. He knew Lestrade cared about his father. Sherlock lacked empathy, not for Lestrade, but for the situation. He couldn’t understand the pain he was feeling.

“Sherlock, we’re fucking broke,” Lestrade pulled away and held his head in his hands, “My sister robbed me blind this weekend.”

_And you let her!_

Sherlock tried a look of sympathy that conveyed sincerity without mocking him. It obviously worked because Lestrade was hugging him again. He could hear the dead-bolt turn on the door. Sherlock was instantly offended.

“That bitch locked us out!” Sherlock said aghast.

Lestrade looked at the door and sniffled, “Never mind her, she ain’t worth it.”

“Isn’t!” Sherlock corrected as he went to the door and started banging on it.

“Stop! She’ll call the bloody police!”

“You are the police!” Sherlock shouted as Lestrade pulled him away. Sherlock started kicking the door with his feet.

“Sherlock!”

His sister swung open the door, “You two are trespassing!” she shouted. Lestrade covered Sherlock’s mouth as a slew of threats came spilling out of his mouth. His sister crossed her arms and shook her head, “It shouldn’t be this hard to leave seeing as your _shit’s already packed_.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open in shock; he looked toward Lestrade who looked very much the same. She slammed the door before either of them had a chance to say anything.

“Oh, she’s asking for it,” Sherlock started to squirm away.

“Sherlock.”

“She can’t get away with this!” Sherlock glared at the building, “She won’t… I’ll see to it.”

Lestrade grabbed his arm, “Don’t. Nothing good ever comes from revenge,” he picked up the kitbag and gave Sherlock a rucksack. Lestrade slung another rucksack over his shoulder.

“This is bollocks,” Sherlock groaned as they started walking towards Dollis Hill station.

“We’ve got enough to last until New Years. Look,” he grabbed Sherlock’s hand, “I wouldn’t judge you if you wanted to go live with your brother while I get back on my feet,” Sherlock squeezed his hand tight, “Three weeks, we’ll be back on our feet, you’ll see,” Lestrade assured him with tear glistened eyes.

 

* * *

Greg took one look at the hostel’s exterior and looked at the surrounding area, “Beats living on the street,” he tried to joke, “I know it isn’t ideal-“

“I’ve slept in far worse places,” Sherlock burst through the front door and started scanning his new surroundings. They rode the lift up to the third floor to enter the reception area.

Greg splurged on the private two bed for the first two weeks, they’d have to move to a four-bed dorm for the last week but he didn’t have the heart to tell Sherlock quite yet. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” he pulled Sherlock away from the common room and they started to climb the stairs, lugging their luggage.

“Smells.”

“Yeah, well.”

“No… Lestrade… I’ve been in crackhouses, I’ve slept on piss stained mattresses, this place _smells._ ”

“Ew, you slept on piss,” Greg jeered.

“Piss stained.”

“Gross,” he laughed, “It’s just backpacker that you’re smelling,” Sherlock gagged as the smell grew stronger, “Jesus, Sherlock, I ain't bothered.”

“It’s concentrated,” his eyes started to water. Greg pulled him up the stairs.

“Hopefully stink sinks,” they walked up and up… and up… Greg felt terribly out of shape. He looked back to Sherlock who was dying of a mixture of stench and physical exertion.

“Go on without me,” he said, panting.

“Smells less bad up here,” Greg tried to reassure him.

“Bloody… fuck! What happened to down-regulation of olfactory receptors after exposure to a pungent smell? It just keeps getting worse!”

Lestrade kept climbing. He reached their floor, walked down the corridor, slid in the key, opened the door, and looked at the room. Sherlock shoved him out of the way and went straight for the window.

The room was scarcely bigger than a broom cupboard. It had a bunk-bed and a sink.

“Where’s the toilet? Even prison cells have toilets,” Sherlock grumbled as he fell on to the bottom bunk. Greg pointed to the sink, “Aw, yuck. Seriously?”

Greg laughed, “There’s a shared bathroom down the hall.”

“Shared?”

“Yes, princess,” Greg put his hands on his hips, “Now move up a bunk.”

“No,” Sherlock sprawled out on the bottom bunk.

“I’m bottom remember,” Greg mounted him and had to bend to keep from smacking his head on the top bunk.

“Could share the bottom bunk,” Sherlock said running a hand up Greg’s arm.

“I _do_ need to sleep.”

“Couldn’t we have reserved a hotel room? With a real bed?”

“Bunk beds are real beds, they’re just… stacked. Come on, it’s just like summer camp… cept it’s winter…”

“Never went to summer camp.”

“Me neither,” Greg let out a sigh, “Wanna hear sad stories bout my childhood?”

“Not really… but if it would make you feel better,” Sherlock shrugged.

“The last night I was with my mum, we didn’t make it to the women’s shelter in time, had to room in this… terrible terrible hostel. Had something like fifteen bunks, lining the walls. Smelled worse than this, much worse. Bodies were packed together on the floor. I was so tiny back then, I just curled up and prayed things would get better,” Greg laid his head down on Sherlock’s chest, “My dad rescued me from that life. If it weren’t for him…” Greg felt a lump form in his throat, “He just loved me instantly… unconditionally… just cos he was my dad,” he closed his eyes and let the tears fall.

They lay around for hours, Sherlock shifted occasionally. They napped on and off. Sherlock complained of a cramp in his arm and Greg pulled away. They both sat on the bottom bunk and stared off into space.

“Any Bohemian Scandal left?” Sherlock asked with a jaded look on his face. Greg shook his head, “I’m bored.”

“Nicked the Game Boy. Tetris?”

“What’s that?”

Greg set Sherlock up with the Game Boy. Greg started going blind from boredom, he watched Sherlock play for ages, “Fuck, Sherlock. I’m so _fucking_ bored,” he blinked and let out a grunt, “We’ve got like… five days of _this,_ ” He motioned to the adjacent wall. Sherlock was in his own world concentrating on little falling bricks.

Greg laid his head on Sherlock’s lap. He started trying to break Sherlock’s concentration, batting at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock brushed his hand away and narrowed his eyes in on the game, “Unh, bugger me, I’m so bored,” Sherlock looked away from the video game briefly.

Something in Greg’s face must have indicated that he wasn’t in the mood. Greg rolled over and stared off into space, “Food’s going to be a problem.”

“Hm?” Sherlock asked, unable to tear his concentration away from the game.

“We have enough for lodgings. Just enough. Mrs Hudson will see to it you get fed, I’m sure of it. I don’t want to take advantage of the lady, but if she offers it, take it.”

“I take it I’m to finish my community service sentence?”

“You don’t have much time left on it. Just get it over with.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Fine.”

“God, don’t know what I’m gonna do… I’ve survived on a meal a day before, but that was back when I was a kid, I dunno-“

“You’re not going to _starve_.”

“You have some bright idea? That doesn’t involve selling drugs.”

Sherlock let the comment slide, “I’ll work out a deal with my brother.”

Greg lifted his head up, “You think he’d help?”

“Well I’m certainly not staying _here_ for the next three weeks.”

“Yeah, where’s he gonna put us up then? The Ritz?”

Sherlock shrugged, “If you’d like.”

Greg sat up, “I don’t mean… Well… Could you imagine?” he shook his head of the thought, “Nah, forget it. It’d cost a fortune.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone, “No service,” he groaned, “Hold on, I’ll be up on the roof if you need me,” he gave Greg the Game Boy and left in a hurried sweep. Greg lost the game when the bricks started piling up too fast.

He didn’t want to get his hopes up.

_Anywhere is better than here. Even if he could manage to get us fed two meals a day… hell I’d take one._

Sherlock returned, “Pack your bags,” he said pulling the rucksack over his shoulder.

“I already paid for the night,” Greg hesitated before swinging the kitbag over his shoulder, “Well?”

“Couldn’t get us into the Ritz.”

Greg laughed, “I was only joking.”

“The Lanesborough work?”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Sherlock froze a moment, “Lestrade… If your sister drained your bank account… how could we afford three weeks at a hostel?”

“Sherlock,” he pressed Sherlock forward and moved him out of the room.

“You…” Sherlock threw his bag on the ground, “You sold it!”

“Sherlock, I really don’t-“

“That stupid motorbike, you sold it so we’d have a place to stay!”

“Didn’t make much on it. It was piece of shit anyhow,” Greg kept marching forward. He grabbed both rucksacks and made way for the stairs.

“Greg,” Greg stopped and looked up at Sherlock, “I swear I’ll make it up to you,” Greg gave him a small grin.

“I’m just glad you came.”


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock had to force Lestrade into the waiting car. Lestrade was having second thoughts about taking his ‘brother’s’ money. Sherlock pulled him in and Lestrade started looking over the black leather interior.

“Smells new.”

“Never been in a new car before?” Sherlock asked and Lestrade shook his head, “Well don’t behave like a street urchin at the hotel.”

“How do I… how do I do that?”

“Wait for people to open your door for you, don’t look them in the eye when they speak to you, and for God’s sake stop fiddling with your thumbs.”

“It’s all too much. How’m I supposed to pay your brother back?”

“You’re not.”

“I can’t just-“

“Sh,” Sherlock pressed his finger to Lestrade’s lips, “We’re going to stop off on Savile Row and attempt to find a suit for you to wear.”

Lestrade nodded. Then his head snapped over to Sherlock, “What?” He asked with furrowed brows.

“A suit, you know. Jacket, tie, trousers,” Sherlock was met with a blank stare, “The thing I wear.”

“I know what a suit is you wanker. Why?”

“You can’t show up to dinner in _that_!”

Lestrade looked down at his stained jeans and plain white t-shirt, “Yeah… might cause a public outcry.”

At the shop, Sherlock kept rubbing his forehead and shouting at the tailor; trying to do his job for him. Lestrade stood stiff being measured in all of the strangest of places. He tried on six different ready-to-wear suits before going back to the one he tried on in the first place. A charcoal wool flannel suit.

“You can borrow my oxfords for now, they’re a half size too big but…” Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, “We’ll have to make do with what we have.”

“Yeah… make do,” Lestrade gave him a look.

“What?”

“Not two hours ago I was making a plan to make our meals last and now we’re getting… suits?”

“A suit and a blazer. We’ll work on your wardrobe later. At the very least we have your measurements,” Sherlock started fussing with Lestrade’s hair.

“What the hell are you doing, leave it!”

“How do you not have a natural part?” Sherlock combed it through his fingers and tried to ruffle up the front.

“My hair’s too short. Just leave it, it’s fine.”

Sherlock gave his hair one last defiant swipe, “There,” _Okay, two more swipes._ “There!” Lestrade turned to look in the mirror.

“Looks the same.”

“And you call _me a_ princess.”

In the car, Lestrade kept shifting uncomfortably in his new suit. Sherlock kept snapping at him to stop. When they finally arrived at the Lanesborough, Sherlock had to keep reminding Lestrade to keep his mouth closed. His jaw dropped every time he saw something remotely expensive. He didn’t wait to be let out of the car and Sherlock had to roll his eyes.

They were immediately greeted by their butler and Lestrade looked like he was about to die from embarrassment. Sherlock opted to skip the tour of the hotel and they were led straight to their suite.

“Here we are, sirs. The Buckingham Suite, built in-“

“Details aren’t necessary.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I prefer, Master Holmes.”

“Holmes?”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“My goodness, s-young Master Holmes… I’m sorry I didn’t…” Sherlock’s eyes darted to Lestrade and the butler regained his composure, “It’s a pleasure to have you staying with us. Shall I start unpacking for you?”

Sherlock went straight to the living room and planted himself on the sofa. He kicked his feet up on to the coffee table, “Well?” He turned to Lestrade who was in a daze.

“I’m… speechless.”

“Good.”

“We have a butler, Sherlock.”

“Yes, do make use of him. They need the exercise.” Sherlock turned on the telly that was mounted into the wall above the fireplace. He flipped through every channel, “Well… I’m bored,” he turned off the set and stretched out, “There’s room on the sofa you know,” he looked pointedly at the seat next to him.

“Sorry…  I’m just gonna…” Sherlock blinked and the next moment Lestrade was in a heap on the floor. Sherlock stood up.

“Fainting! Now that’s the spirit, you’re on your way Lestrade. Let me fetch the butler. Oh, what was his name again? Never mind, you just rest there,” he stepped over Lestrade’s body, called for the butler, and went to use the private land-line.

“Jim you’re a saint,” he said, lounging out on the super king sized bed.

“ _Anything for my dearest pet,”_ there was a long pause, “ _And Sherlock?”_

“Yes, Jim-dear?”

“ _If I don’t have those names by Friday I will skin you,"_ Sherlock donned a smug grin, “ _Alive.”_

“Oh yes, I know.”

_“You’d make a lovely pair of Oxfords.”_

“Of course, kiss kiss. Mwah,” He smacked his lips together and hung up the phone. He steepled his fingers, and brought them to his chin. Lestrade stumbled into the room, “Ah good, you’re awake. How about dinner?” Sherlock stood up and flattened out Lestrade’s suit’s front and straightened his tie.

 

* * *

_Maybe a bit of food would do me some good._

Greg kept looking around in wonder at the high end restaurant. He’d only just fainted. He’d had fainting spells before. It was too unreal. He kept blinking, expecting it all to go away.

When he went to live with his dad, that was something, but this… This was unimaginable luxury. He looked at the menu several times but was too distracted to read. He saw the prices and his head started spinning. He couldn’t afford anything like this, even on payday. It made the Bistrot Bruno look like McDonalds.

“Soup alone is fifteen pounds,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “They really expect you to eat two, three courses?”

“Four. Don’t worry about it.”

“Easy for you to say. Glass of wine costs more than the bottle, _Sherlock._ ” Greg whispered. “This is expensive.”

“We’ll order in tomorrow. Relax. It’s not your money.”

“I’m paying back every penny. Even if it means I don’t retire til I’m eighty,” Greg said firmly. Sherlock laughed as he looked at the menu, “What’s so funny?”

“Pigeon,” He pointed out.

Greg laughed, “What is it? Fresh from Trafalgar Square?”

They started giggling. After three glasses of a wine that was far too hard to pronounce, Greg was a bit lopsided. He felt warm inside. The lighting was flattering Sherlock’s many lovely attributes. Greg became fixated on his lips. He felt a warm stirring in his groin. His stomach started to flutter and everything seemed to move in slow motion.

His inhibitions flew out the window. He was going to bloody well enjoy his holiday. Sherlock couldn’t look any better if he tried. His suit was cut just right, his eyes were sharp yet slightly dilated, and he was just oozing with sex appeal.

Greg just had to keep from making an ass of himself, which was a hard feat being a street urchin with a buzz.

_More than a buzz._

Greg hit his knee on the table as he stood up. He hobbled a bit rubbing at his thigh. Sherlock snorted.

They walked very discretely hand-in-hand to the Rolls-Royce Phantom VI. The chauffeur held the door for each of them. Greg let his head fall back on the seat. He looked over at Sherlock and gave him a flirtatious grin. Sherlock picked up on it and gave him a wink. Greg let a startled laugh escape and he fumbled to hold it back.

When they were let out of the car, Greg stumbled out, “Three glasses and I’m out of it. My, I’m a light weight tonight. You’ll have to carry me to bed.”

“Oh Gregory my dear man, what’s the butler for?”

Greg sputtered a laugh and caught his ribs as he started to chuckle, “Oh, that’s right, we’re rich!” he laughed heartily. He had to catch his breath as they walked through the mahogany entrance hall. He kicked off his shoes and started undoing his tie. “Thanks for the lovely evening, Sherlock. It’s been ages since I’ve had this much fun eating,” Sherlock started removing his own shoes. Greg threw his jacket on the sofa, “Let the butler deal with it, the butler,” he snorted, “Who would’ve ever thought, a guy like me, would have a butler?”

Greg waltzed into the bedroom, threw himself on the bed, and felt like he’d died and gone to heaven. He heard Sherlock start running the water in the bathroom. His eyes grew heavy waiting.

He woke when he saw the en suite door open. A bright and blinding light streamed out through the mist, refracting every which way. Sherlock emerged from the bathroom as just a shadow in the doorway, with a plume of thick steam rising behind him, he looked positively menacing. He approached Greg and said in a deep dark voice, “I’m ready.”


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock couldn’t have been any less ready. His hands shook as he poured himself another three fingers of scotch. He felt like a bride on her wedding night. Tonight was the night. He rolled his shoulders and shut his eyes. He took in some deep breaths, smoothed out the comforter, laid down, and waited in his bath robe.

He wanted everything to go smoothly. He couldn’t back down now. He felt a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat. He took another swig of scotch and grimaced. Even alcohol wasn’t helping, if anything it was making things worse.

He placed the glass on the side table, steepled his fingers, and brought them to his lips. He retreated to the deep recesses of his mind. He emotionally distanced himself from the situation and started to run through his past experiences with intercourse.

_What felt good?_

He remembered all the times it hurt. Ripping, tearing, pain. Then there were times it felt numb. Slow, calm, but still not good. Why would Lestrade elect to do this?

The bathroom door opened and Sherlock’s whole body tensed. Lestrade strolled over to the bedside and looked over the glass of scotch.

“Got any more?”

“Bottle’s on the desk,” Sherlock said calmly, honing in on his breathing, trying to release the tightness in his chest.

Lestrade grabbed the bottle and looked it over, “Vintage. Older than I am... costs more too... not that I cost much,” Lestrade remarked as he pulled open the top and took a swig. He smacked his lips together and looked the bottle over one more time, “So that’s what 600 quid tastes like,” He walked over and plopped the bottle down next to the glass on the table, “Ten quid would get you drunk just the same.”

“I’m not looking to become intoxicated.”

“Nervous?” Lestrade sat on the side of the bed and held his hands in his lap, “Me too. It’s been a while.”

Sherlock slid over to the other side of the bed and Lestrade lay down beside him. They both stared up at the ceiling in awkward silence.

“Pass me the bottle,” Sherlock said with a sigh. They passed the bottle back and forth until all their nerves vanished.

“You know, first time... ever been with a bloke. When I lost my virginity n’ all, he was so _tiny,_ ” Lestrade snorted. Sherlock started chuckling, “And I mean it was like, this big,” Lestrade put out his thumb and forefinger just a pinch, “I was so _dumb_.”

“You’re not _dumb,_ ” Sherlock slurred as he took another swig of scotch. He winced as it went down like fire, “Just ignorant.”

“Guy was married for Christ’s sake,” Lestrade said and Sherlock snorted a laugh.

“I thought your first was a chum from school.”

“Nah, he was my first _boyfriend._ I’m talkin’ _sex,_ ” Lestrade grabbed the bottle from Sherlock and downed another gulp before he placed the bottle on the side table, “Henry was great n’ all, but he was... too gay. You know?”

“Like all... fairy dust and pink tutus?” Sherlock mimicked with a limp wrist.

“Exactly. He was flaming! I mean, come on. Have some self-respect.”

“Maybe it’s who he was,” Sherlock shrugged, sinking into the pillows.

“It was all show; even had a transient lisp.”

“So who came after pin prick?”

“Fucking, bastard. Travelled with the circus.”

“Clown?”

“Bloody well should have been,” Lestrade laughed, “He was a con-man. Worked the carnival games. Cheated good people out of their hard earned money.”

“How big was he?”

“Not very, but he was fucking thick as hell.”

“Hurt?”

“Like a bitch,” Lestrade grimaced at the thought, “Lived with em for years. Should have been the best years of my life, I mean, I was in my prime. Stupid fat fuck; was a complete arse. Surprised I spent five minutes with the fuck, let alone five years,” Lestrade sighed, “Last one, we went on a few dates. Nothin’ too special. Sex was a joke. You ever hear blokes say you can never use too much lube? Complete bollocks. I couldn’t even feel em! And he was sizeable, you know? It made this _spludge spludge,”_ they both started laughing, “So unattractive,” Lestrade rolled over to face Sherlock, “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“How was your first?”

Sherlock licked his bottom lip, “Hurt.”

“Who was it?”

“My brother’s friend.”

“Did you have many after?”

Sherlock shrugged, “None that were lasting. One, I lived with for a time. He... wasn’t a very nice man,” Sherlock swallowed hard. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, “Why is it, nothing ever goes to plan?”

Lestrade yawned and nestled his head into the pillow, “I dunno, universe’s out to get us?”

“Must be,” Sherlock scooted forward to share the same pillow.

Sherlock fell into a torrid sleep. He knew he was dreaming but he couldn’t rouse himself. Just mentioning the second Sebastian stirred up horrid memories.

The man had offered the world to Sherlock at an early age. Sherlock had run away from Harrow, his brother, his mummy, the first Sebastian, Victor, Harry. He was on the run for months. London was the perfect background to blend in to. He disappeared into the underground and became an urban explorer. The people he ran across, much like the buildings, were completely abandoned. However, Sherlock had a home; he had a family to run back to.

He was playing cat and mouse with his brother and was nearly caught on several occasions. It was fun for a while but Sherlock craved something more. Sebastian was there to offer him much, much more. He was a homeless veteran with a less than honourable discharge. He had a body made of stone and dominated the room.

Sherlock knew the man was dangerous. Sebastian was a learned scholar who was top of his class at Eton and Oxford. He was left with his thoughts for far too long in the Army. He was alone for weeks at a time with only his mind to occupy his time as he stared down the scope of his rifle. It was enough to drive any man mad. Sherlock understood the excruciating boredom that consumed Sebastian. They both sought to destroy the feeling with whatever chemicals they could find.

It started out with cannabis and alcohol. Sherlock felt placid. He always smoked too much and didn’t feel ‘high’. He'd lay on the sofa, stoned out of his mind, watching the dust flakes dance in the morning sun.

His senses were dull.

He started abusing methadone and felt himself start sinking further and further into the sofa. He was numb to everything. He let himself be touched. Sebastian’s hands were rough; he took what he wanted when he wanted it.

Sherlock didn’t want _it_. He felt compelled to pretend it was what he wanted but he just wanted proximity. Sebastian didn’t say nice things like Harry; he didn’t like kissing either. When Sherlock was needy, Sebastian shoved him away, elbowing him hard in the ribs. That’s when the waterworks started. Sherlock found he could draw tears out of nowhere and would cry for attention.

Sherlock’s crying made Sebastian’s blood boil, but it did elicit a response. Sherlock started crying after sex and Sebastian had had enough. He started slipping him Xanax, which worked for a while but the withdrawal was intense and on the drug Sherlock started having hallucinations. He wasn't himself anymore.

Everything changed when Sebastian brought cocaine into the house. Sherlock took to it immediately. It stimulated every nerve and made him feel elated like never before. He’d finally found his drug of choice.

He was hesitant to try intravenous but snorting was giving him severe nose bleeds and he didn’t like the way it made his throat numb and agitated his nasal passages. Slamming coke was amazing but his partner turned into a savage tiger when he was strung out.

Sebastian didn’t like the word ‘no’ especially coming from Sherlock’s lips. He’d grab Sherlock roughly by the chin and stare coldly into his eyes. Sherlock’s defiant glare would earn him a smart slap across the face.

Xanax no longer helped. He ran away several times. Sebastian made use of the homeless network to track him down every time. He'd drag Sherlock home and promise to change. Sherlock never believed him, but stayed like an idiot.

Sherlock stirred in his sleep as he dreamt lucidly of hiding in the cupboard. He was having a bad withdrawal from the benzos and he forgot dinner on the stove. It was charred and he knew Sebastian would notice. He was sweating and breathing heavily, trying to keep from being punished. Sebastian found him, swung open the cupboard door, and started kicking at his ribs and exposed thigh with his steel-toed boot. Sherlock cowered in fear.

Sebastian kept screaming at him, “What is wrong with you?” he pulled him out of the cupboard and Sherlock brought himself to tears. Sebastian grabbed him firmly by the wrists and shook him. Sherlock remembered vomiting then he was thrown hard against the ground and everything turned into fleeting glimpses of memories.

The pain was excruciating; the worst he had ever felt. It felt like it was going to last forever. He had enough sense in him to run but his feet took him to the last place he wanted to be.

On Mycroft’s doorstep the tears were real. He saw Mycroft shed some tears in private when he didn’t think Sherlock was watching. Sherlock had given up on life. Mycroft hovered over his bedside. He fell asleep in a chair next to Sherlock’s bed and woke him every three or four hours like the doctors had instructed.

Sherlock donned a thousand yard stare. His blood craved stimulation. He decided to go it alone and make his way in the world. He couldn’t depend on Sebastian for anything.

He hated his father’s silver pocket watch. Mycroft carried it wherever he went. It was tethered to him and stuffed in his waistcoat's pocket. The constant ticking mocked him and reminded him who was the favourite son. Sherlock was blamed for tearing the family apart, but it was his father that was having the affair, he was the one that destroyed their perfect little world. Sherlock only had to point it out and the family crumbled to pieces. His father left, his mother withdrew completely and buried herself in her social life trying to keep up appearances, and all that was left was Mycroft.

His father left Mycroft the watch. He had always loved him more. Sherlock was a mistake, an accident. They only wanted the one. It was an easy decision; Sherlock pick-pocketed his brother and left Kensington to start his life anew.

Now he conditionally had Lestrade. He had so many layers to peel back and there was so much more that was left to be discovered. Lestrade seemed so plain and ordinary. Sherlock often found it difficult to see through his facade. He had to keep him safe from Jim. As soon as the mole was revealed he was out, no more.

 

* * *

In the morning Greg found himself wrapped up in Sherlock’s warmth. There wasn’t an inch of space between them. The phone started ringing and Sherlock moaned. He reached to answer it.

“Tea or coffee?” he groaned to Greg.

“What d’you think?”

“Bring both,” he said with a grumble. Sherlock wrapped his robe around himself tightly and started yawning and stretching. He sprawled out dramatically on the oversized bed.

“Plans for today?” Greg asked, peering out at Sherlock through sore and tired eyes.

“Just a small meeting, then Mrs Hudson needs help with her door. I’ll be free around four.”

“Meeting?” Greg yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“Small… miniscule thing,” Sherlock sat up and rolled his shoulders. Greg laid his head on his arm and lazily watched Sherlock get dressed, “There’s an in-room dining menu on the desk in the sitting room. Feel free to make use of the car, the spa, the bars,” Sherlock started fiddling with his tie. Greg laughed.

“Come ‘ere,” he sat up and Sherlock walked over. He tied a quick Windsor knot and tightened it. He straightened Sherlock’s lapels, “Mm your suit needs pressing,” he smiled, “Against me,” He pulled Sherlock in close and kissed the corner of his lips.

Sherlock pulled away, “I’m off. Enjoy your holiday.”

Greg fell back on to the bed. His mother’s voice inside his head told him to get up and start taking advantage of every amenity and start stuffing sweets in his pockets for later. He started off the day with a well needed shower.

He’d had that God forsaken tub for years now. It felt nice to just stand under the steady stream of water and let the steam envelope him. He set to the daunting task of shaving and was soon as smooth as a baby’s bum and looked ten years younger. He wrapped a towel around his waist.

_Would’ve had to rent towels at the hostel. This place is fucking fantastic._

He opened the armoire and found his uniform, pressed, with its buttons shining brilliantly, “Holy shit,” he’d never seen it look so nice.

He wondered if he had to lounge around in a suit and if jeans and a t-shirt would get him thrown out.

_Imposter! Throw him out on the street with the other riff-raff._

He grabbed a button-down shirt and went to the dresser and grabbed his least holey jeans. The look was smart yet casual. He didn’t give a shit.

Greg walked into the sitting room and saw the fresh fruit, coffee, and tea. He started flipping through channels on the telly and sinking his teeth into a banana.

_Wow, seriously… nothing on…_

He stopped suddenly. _The Flinstones_ were on. He eyeballed the room, leaned forward, and checked to see if the butler was around. He smirked and settled in to watch some cartoons.

After two hours of mind-numbing telly his belly started rumbling. He turned off _the Jetsons_ and walked over to grab the dining menu.

Just as he was about to place the order, the phone rang. Greg’s hand hovered over the phone for a moment before he grabbed the handset and placed it to his ear.

“Hullo?”

“ _Your car is ready, sir.”_

“I didn’t order-“

The phone clicked and Greg heard dead air on the other end. He set the phone back on the hook. He sat back in the chair, brought a hand to his face, and scratched at his chin. He gave it some thought, stood, threw on his blazer and left the suite.

The car was waiting, as promised, out front. He allowed himself to be let in and was surprised to find a young woman occupying the other seat.

Greg nodded.

_This is how I die._

He looked back over to the woman.

_At least she’s good looking._

Greg could hardly see out the tinted windows and he lost count of how many turns they made. They pulled into a very shady looking underground car park. He came to terms with death at least four times before they parked.

He was let out of the car and saw the lone chair, illuminated by the car’s headlights. He sucked in a deep breath and strolled forward to sit. He laid his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes, and waited to be snuffed out.

A tall man strode into view and seemed to take all the air out of the room. Greg couldn’t help but stare. He accessed the situation and his shoulders fell.

“You’re the brother,” Greg said, putting his hands to his face.

“Mycroft,” The man said calmly. His nose was slightly turned up giving him an air of arrogance.

Greg’s inward groan turned outward, “He neglected to mention me… didn’t he?”

_I knew it was too good to be true._


	21. Chapter 21

Mycroft looked down at Gregory Lestrade. The photographs didn’t do him any justice. He kept his objective in mind as he stepped closer to the man that was close to breaking. He hadn’t anticipated he’d submit so easily.

It wasn’t an act either. The Constable wasn’t cowering in fear. He'd already accepted his fate. He had nothing to hide. Mycroft felt like cursing the wind.

“What is your relationship with my brother?”

“I don’t know, honest I don’t.”

Mycroft’s inner polygraph affirmed his statement. He didn’t want to know if they were romantically involved or what they had been up to.

“I suppose an apology is in order,” Mycroft said smoothly. The Constable looked up at him with a confused look on his face, “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet. Hence this place,” Mycroft pulled out his day planner, “Sherlock has been under your care for over a month and in that time he’s been clean?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s free to come and go as he pleases. I just know he hasn’t been slamming coke like he was.”

Mycroft nodded, “And he’s spent a good sum of his community service sentence at a two-hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street?”

“Yeah, Mrs Hudson… he erm… stole from her once so he’s sort of repaying his debt to her.”

Mycroft shut his planner, “Do you know of a James Moriarty?”

“No… name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Hm,” Mycroft found himself torn. He should very discreetly dispose of the man before him. Make him ‘disappear’. It would be an easy enough task, his family was small; his friends were few. He’d be a missing person no one missed.

The other part of him thought it might be worth the effort to give the man’s life a new direction. He had the resources available.

But, first and foremost, Sherlock’s safety was his number one priority.

“Fortunately I can provide accommodations for _two_ guests at my abode in Kensington.”

“I really don’t mind the hostel, Sherlock was the one-“

“I insist,” Mycroft said with the least threatening smile he could muster. Sherlock needed to be closely monitored, this Lestrade fellow was merely a bonus.

Mycroft set Gregory Lestrade free. He’d have the car bring him and their luggage by around afternoon tea time where he’d become better acquainted with the man before his brother showed up at his door demanding an explanation.  

Mycroft found himself preening in the mirror for far too long. He kept debating his battle dress. He felt an odd flutter of nerves that he wasn’t accustomed to. He was certain it wouldn’t take much coercion. Gregory Lestrade’s past was loose at best, with both males and females.

He tracked down three males that had been intimate with the man. His first, Henry Knight, remained elusive. He was an ugly little thing with big ears and a crooked smile. Mycroft didn’t see what the Constable saw in the boy. No death certificate existed but that didn’t mean that one should discredit it as a possibility for the man’s disappearance.

Gregory Lestrade’s past lovers remembered him vividly and all spoke about his struggle with alcohol. Mycroft decided to lock up his liquor cabinet, just in case.

He looked through his options in suit jackets. It needed to scream ‘ _touch me_ ’. Marled wool seemed the best choice. Satin pants underneath, but those were for later. He fussed over his feet; his last pedicure was far too rough and rubbed his heels raw and uneven. He’d have to look into having the woman deported.

_Tie, no tie._

He’d have to mirror Gregory Lestrade’s appearance. No tie, shirt’s first two buttons undone, jacket left open. Mycroft tongued his cheek. He pulled in the jacket closed, pulled it out.

_I’ll have to unbutton it to sit anyhow._

He’d greet him at the door so he wouldn’t feel intimidated. He went through the motions of greeting an imaginary man. The door bell buzzed. There was a policeman’s knock on the door.

_I’m not ready._

Mycroft felt flustered. He held the cologne bottle out and sprayed several times and walked through the cloud of musk. He coughed several times. Better than spraying himself directly, he didn’t want to appear _desperate_.

He hurried down the stairs carefully and quietly, not wanting to sound like an elephant charging. He opened the door and went to greet Gregory Lestrade, as rehearsed, and then he saw his brother standing beside the man, scowling.

It took every bit of Mycroft’s resolve not to scowl back, “Gregory, do come in. _Sherlock,”_ The Constable walked in tentatively, taking the place in. Mycroft and Sherlock started a glaring contest. He could hear Sherlock’s teeth grinding.

_Good, I have him backed into a corner._

Sherlock threw his rucksack on the floor. Mycroft’s lip twitched briefly. This was too good; he was going to turn into an indolent child under his roof. He could dress like a man all he wanted but Sherlock would always be a bumbling little child.

“Have a seat, the kettle’s just boiled,” Mycroft motioned to the dining room. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and straightened up. He strolled into the dining room with a haughty gate. Mycroft wanted to reach out and trip him with his foot.

“Um, don’t mean to sound rude, but is there a place I can put my bags?” The Constable appeared utterly lost in the foyer.

“Oh perish the thought, here I’ll show you your room,” Mycroft looked towards Sherlock who was starting to turn red with anger.

_Very good. He’s fit to have a tantrum._

 He showed the man up the stairs to the first floor. He opened the door opposite of Sherlock’s. It was usually reserved for intimate purposes but was still tastefully decorated with a Victorian charm.

“I can’t thank you enough for allowing us to stay,” The Constable extended a hand.

“Think nothing of it,” Mycroft shook his hand firmly, “Tea?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” he placed his gaudy kitbag and rucksack next to the bed and followed Mycroft back down the stairs. They started hearing soft music coming from the dining room.

“Sherlock, how-“ Mycroft started. He had to compose himself before he strangled his brother in front of his guest, “That was locked away in my room.”

Sherlock cradled the Sderci violin to his chin and gave his brother a look of pure defiance.

_The game is on._

 

* * *

After tea, Sherlock quickly stole away with his copper and hid in the bushes for a quick snog session. He could tell Lestrade reveled in the possibility of being caught. He felt him smiling against his lips. Lestrade laughed softly with each break. He tugged Sherlock closer and near tumbled over the underbrush. He was positively giddy with excitement.

Sherlock was less than pleased to be under his brother’s roof with his lover. He knew Lestrade wasn’t his brother’s type. Lestrade had a boyish charm, a rebellious streak, and a well maintained sense of immaturity. Hell, they were snogging in the bushes!

Lestrade was motorbikes and punk rock while Mycroft was luxury sedans and Kenny G.

Things were getting heated and Sherlock had to tear himself away and gasp for breath. He saw Lestrade smiling from ear to ear. His shirt was all rucked up and his cheeks were flushed red. He kept biting at his bottom lip to conceal his impish smile.

“Wow,” Lestrade laughed running his hand through his hair. He looked at Sherlock with lustful eyes, “What does your brother do again?” he laughed nervously. Sherlock grabbed him by the hips and brought their bodies closer together.

“Does it matter?” he asked with a low sensual rumble.

“Does he have hit-men?”

Sherlock looked away for a moment. Lestrade started trying to pull away, “No,” He lied.

“We should probably head inside, ‘fore he comes looking for us,” Lestrade said, looking toward the ground. Sherlock looked at him disappointedly, “We’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes, he’s gonna suspect-“ Sherlock captured his lips once more and ground into him with his hips. Lestrade started pushing him away, “Sherlock, really, we just stepped outside to smoke. Sherlock!” Lestrade batted his hands away as Sherlock tried to pull down his zip.

Lestrade pulled up his zip and stepped out of the brush. Sherlock emerged shortly after and placed a hand on the small of Lestrade’s back, “Sherlock,“ He squirmed away, “Don’t,” Sherlock gave him a look, “Your brother has been kind enough to not have me killed, don’t change that.”

_You have no idea how right you are._

“I don’t want him thinking I’m some… perv,” Lestrade spat. He stayed a good distance away from Sherlock while he pulled out his packet of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and lit it up, taking in a long drag, “Need one?”

“No,” Sherlock said with a sigh, “Quit.”

“You serious?” Lestrade took another long drag and exhaled a smooth and steady stream of smoke out of his luscious kiss-wet lips. Sherlock’s mind blanked. He wanted to lean forward and reclaim the man’s lips. Maybe he’d accidentally trip and cause their bodies to come crashing together.

God, why did he have to take that stupid pill Jim gave him? Now he was stuck as randy as a stallion, in his damned brother’s house.

The miniscule meeting was a resounding success and Jim was beyond pleased with Sherlock. Sherlock had made a major discovery about the mole’s right hand man or in this case his left hand woman. Jim was beyond elated. They were infinitesimally close to uncovering the mole. He need only track down _The Woman._

“Who do you know at Buckingham Palace?” Jim was on the edge of his seat, about to pounce.

“Old friend of mine… um… an equerry,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“ _Friend_?” Jim inquired with a wry grin.

“Colleague,” Sherlock blushed.

“This woman’s all but fucking royalty,” Jim said, looking through the photographs that were strewn out on the coffee table.

“She um… is… fucking royalty,” Sherlock corrected.

“She’s an extortionist,” Jim said, staring at the photos, “And a contortionist,” He picked up one of the particularly naughty photos and gave it a mischievous grin, “Might keep this one in my private collection.”

“She works fairly remotely. Her mobile phone is her life-line.”

“Get that phone,” Jim said standing up to loom over Sherlock. He stroked under Sherlock’s chin, “You look… sad,” Jim said, mimicking Sherlock’s expression.

“It’s nothing.”

“Bedroom troubles?” Before Sherlock could respond, Jim went into the kitchen and started pulling out different pill bottles. He looked over the labels and started discarding the unwanted ones over his shoulder. He found an unlabeled bottle full of little blue pills. Sherlock looked intently as Jim pulled out a bottle of nasal spray.

Jim strolled over confidently and held out the bottle of tablets for Sherlock, “Dr Jim’s love potion, snort this, take the pill, and call me in the morning. That is if you can still stand,” he laughed. He started to scowl at Sherlock who was looking over the pills.

“What’s it for?”

“Hypertension.”

“I don’t have-“

Jim yanked the bottle from Sherlock’s grip and twisted off the top. He pulled out a pill and shoved it into Sherlock’s hand.

“Take it.”

“What phase of testing is it on?” Sherlock asked nervously.

“Clinical, now _pop_ the pill.”

Sherlock ran his thumb over the pill. Jim looked at him intently, “For… fuck’s sake,” Jim pulled out another pill and popped it into his mouth, he held it between his teeth for Sherlock to see, then swallowed, “I'm not going to poison _you_.”

Sherlock placed the pill in his mouth and swallowed hard. He grimaced at the bitter taste. Jim snorted the nasal spray before passing it off to Sherlock. Sherlock looked over the label.

“Jim… this is for lactating women,” Sherlock said looking over the warnings.

“Would you just-“ Jim growled. Sherlock inserted the nozzle into his left nostril and squeezed the bottle. He felt the spray run down the back of his throat and his eyes started to water, “Atta boy,” Jim said, patting his shoulder.

Sherlock left Belgravia feeling like a bull on a rampage. He barely just intercepted Lestrade at the hotel. When he was informed they’d be staying with his brother he wanted to scream in frustration.

Any time Lestrade laid his hands on him he raged with hormones. He wanted him desperately. Everything about him screamed sex. His jeans were tight in the crotch, his button down was straining against his masculine form. His shoulders were so broad and his thighs were deliciously firm. He looked amazing when he was clean shaven.

Every time Sherlock brushed up against him, he could feel his cock start straining. It was starting to really hurt, but the guy wouldn’t take a hint! Just watching Lestrade smoke was making him rock hard. Those damn lips.

Sherlock let out an unintentional whimper.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” Lestrade happened to look down, he turned and shielded his eyes. He sputtered a laugh.

“S’not funny,” Sherlock winced and hopped up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Sorry, can’t help it,” Lestrade’s eyes started to water as he tried to hold back his belly laugh.

“Please,” Sherlock begged.

“Just go toss off in the loo.”

“Greg,” Sherlock whined. He drew Lestrade into a hug, pressing his firm member against his abdomen. Lestrade let out a nervous cough and looked away uncomfortably.

“He’s gonna see us…” Lestrade complained. Sherlock shoved him away a bit too harshly. God, how he regretted it when he saw the anger in Lestrade’s eyes, “Hey!” he barked.

Sherlock covered his ears with his hands and stormed away. Last thing he wanted was to be reprimanded. He walked right through the hedges, climbed the brick fence, and left without delay.

He heard Lestrade’s shouts but he kept walking with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He drew his overcoat closed to conceal his blasted erection. He felt betrayed.

He strolled by the white stucco terraced houses, kicking a pebble as he went. He suddenly felt relaxed. More relaxed than he’d ever been before. His knees gave out and his face hit the pavement.


	22. Chapter 22

It took Sherlock three tries to wake up. The first time he couldn't move and was completely paralysed from head to toe. He lay frightened and gasping for air. The second time he could loll his head from side to side and coughed out massive amounts of saliva. The third he sat up suddenly and felt a sharp pain in his head.

He leaned back on to the palms of his hands and started bobbing his head back and forth while he gathered his thoughts. He saw the woman before him, holding a riding crop. He looked at her drunkenly. The crop came down with a crack on his left breast and Sherlock let out a low moan.

The woman quirked one eyebrow. Sherlock eyed the video camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. He let out a laugh.

"You won't get a rise out of me."

"Was that meant to be a double entendre?" the woman asked with a wry smirk.

Sherlock made a small gurgling sound before speaking, "You're hardly a woman at all… How old are you? Sixteen?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Liar," He snorted, "You're scarcely older than I am," Sherlock let his head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, "We're in Belgravia. The ceiling tiles are turn of the nineteenth century, same as Jim's… we could even be on the same street and he'd never know," Sherlock brought his head up once more, "Clever girl."

"Adler. Irene Adler. Not that names are of any importance. I could say my name was Tiger-lily and it wouldn't make your prospects any different."

"You're planning to black-mail me?"

"No, this is for my own, _private collection,_ " Irene kneeled in front of Sherlock and cupped his chin in her hand. She leaned forward and Sherlock closed his eyes softly as their lips came together. His shoulders jolted in shock when she bit down hard on his bottom lip, drawing blood. She pulled away and he winced, wiping his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, "This is your one warning, Sherlock Holmes. You are to stop digging your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"Why?" Sherlock glared at her defiantly.

"You won't like what you find," she said, licking her lips and looking over him like he was the most delicious thing she'd ever seen.

"And if I don't?"

"Your little police friend-" She started pushing him back by his shoulders.

"Stop… just stop," Sherlock held up a hand.

"I'd love to see you again," she said with a flirtatious smirk, "But let's hope we never have to meet again," She laid Sherlock down flat on his back, placed the riding crop beside his head, and ran her hands sensually down his chest and abdomen. She rested her hands on his inner thighs and flattened out the front of his trousers, "And you said I wouldn't get a rise out of you." she said with a tut.

She straddled him and took a seat on his lower abdomen. Sherlock gulped and closed his eyes. He felt a smart slap across his face and his eyes shot open.

"I need your full and undivided attention," she stretched out like a cat and ran her hands up to Sherlock's shoulders and gripped them tightly, digging her nails in, "I _need_ it," she said with a low growl. She rocked her pelvis against him.

"Please," he pleaded.

"Please what, Mr Holmes?" she asked with a smouldering desire in her eyes.

"Stop."

"Oh, I love it when they beg," She let out a little squeal of delight, "You're already paid for; you might as well lay back and enjoy it."

Sherlock raised his hands above his head, laced his fingers together, and settled back with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and said with a conceited tone, "Get on with it then," Irene placed a palm against his chest and pressed up.

"What?" The flames behind her eyes extinguished.

Sherlock opened one eye, looked pointedly at his crotch, and said, "Suck my dick, bitch."

Irene gave him an undecided look. Her face questioned his sincerity. Sherlock lips curled slowly into a malicious smile.

His hand darted out for the riding crop and before Irene could get a hold of him he started whipping her until she raised her hands in defence. He raced for the camera, kicking the tripod, causing the expensive machinery to come crashing to ground.

He saw the flip phone sitting on the coffee table and both he and Irene made a mad dash for it. She had one hand on the phone when Sherlock delivered a harsh back-handed slap across her face with the riding crop. She cried out in pain and Sherlock snatched the phone and sprinted for the front door.

He burst out into bright daylight and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He ran blindly into the streets causing cars to swerve and screech. He hopped an iron-barred fence and ran like a madman in a zig-zag pattern. He heard the sounds of a barking dog as he was chased through the garden and into the back door of the terraced house.

He looked back to see the ferocious Welsh corgi looking to make a meal of him. It chased him with a bunny-like gait and continued trying to nip at his heels as he ran through the kitchen and started ice skating on the freshly waxed floor. A woman screamed bloody murder as Sherlock lost his footing. His feet slid out from under him and he fell onto the ground with a loud thud and blacked out momentarily.

The police arrived shortly after and escorted him from the premises in handcuffs.

His brother let him sweat it out for hours. He worried constantly about the mobile phone now in the police's possession. The mole had to be on the call log, perhaps even in the phone's contacts. He needed to get to the phone before the battery died.

He prayed they would surrender it to him. If they discovered it was stolen he was done for. He was detained for eight hours before they released him to his brother who looked less than pleased.

"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as he was shoved unceremoniously into the back of the idling vehicle. He kept the phone hidden deep in his pocket. He felt his heart race with anticipation.

"He needs time, Sherlock."

"Time?" Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed his brother roughly by his shirt collar, "What did you do to him?" he hissed.

"What I did? You're the one back on the needle," his brother said with disgust.

"Oh, shit," Sherlock sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He noticed they were taking a wrong turn, leading away from the house and Lestrade.

"You are not getting off easy this time, I'll see to it. I've already spoken with several rehabilitation centres."

Sherlock swung open the car door and tucked and rolled out of the moving vehicle. He could hear his brother shouting his name as he ran as fast as he could to beat Mycroft to his home.

Thoughts raced through his head, tearing him up inside. He couldn't lose Lestrade like this; not now, not when he was so close to being free. He wouldn't let it end like this.

He reached the house in record time. His lungs burned; he couldn't take in enough air. He burst through the front door and saw sparks in his vision.

Lestrade approached him and looked at him with fear in his eyes.

"Run... run away with me," Sherlock panted. He reached out for Lestrade's hand and clutched it, "Please."

Lestrade shook his hand off, "I can't, Sherlock. You need help."

Sherlock fell to his knees and gasped for air. He dug his hand into his pocket and withdrew the phone. He held it out for Lestrade to see.

"With this... we'll never have to worry about money... ever again," he was sweating profusely and could hardly see straight, but he could sense Lestrade's worry. Lestrade got on his knees and started begging Sherlock to get help. Sherlock reached out to cup his chin and stroke his cheek with his thumb. He wiped away Lestrade's tears and leaned forward to claim his lips.

Mycroft stormed into the room and froze. Sherlock looked up and immediately knew he'd made a grave mistake. Sherlock felt like his had heart stopped. He looked deeply into Lestrade's eyes, "I'm so sorry," Sherlock's thumb shook as it hovered over the redial button.

"Sherlock."

The room went dead silent; all that could be heard was a faint noise from upstairs. Sherlock pressed end. The ringing ceased.


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock, now listen very carefully,” Mycroft put out his hands. Greg looked to Sherlock who looked like a cornered animal, ready to lash out.

“ _Run,”_ Sherlock whispered. Greg swallowed. His eyes darted from Mycroft to the open door. Not long ago he was informed Sherlock had overdosed on cocaine again, but here Sherlock was, right as rain. He couldn’t have recovered so quickly. He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

“I’m not going to harm you,” Mycroft took a step forward and Sherlock slid back, shielding Greg.

“You can’t.”

“No, Sherlock, _you_ can’t,” Mycroft looked towards Greg, “Gregory-“ Mycroft made a motion for the inside of his jacket and Greg’s mind clicked. The adrenaline took over and he turned into PC Lestrade.

“Get down!” he threw Sherlock to ground, shot forward on to his knee, wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s knees, and performed a double leg take-down. Mycroft hit the ground with a wheeze, “Hands up!” Greg dug into Mycroft’s suit jacket, withdrew his handgun, and checked the safety.

He stood and pointed the gun directly at Mycroft’s chest, “Sherlock call 999,” Greg looked back to see Sherlock shaking his head, “Sherlock-“

“We need to get out of here, _now.”_

Greg didn’t ask twice, he released the magazine from the handgun and stuffed it in one pocket and the gun in the other. He dashed out of the door and started sprinting down the street.

“This way,” Sherlock pulled him down an alleyway.

“If we can make it to Notting Hill, the police-“

“The police won’t be any help, this is above the police,” Sherlock tugged his arm and they ran down the alley. Sherlock led him down several side-roads and alleyways until he dove into a window well.

“Sherlock, that’s breaking and entering.”

“Would you rather be dead?” Sherlock sneered as he pried open the window with his fingertips. Greg jumped in after him and squeezed through the sub-basement window. Greg coughed as he walked through a thick haze of smoke. It didn’t smell anything like tobacco or cannabis. Greg looked around at all the people crowding the room, lying on mattresses on the floor. A couple stopped mid-copulation.

“Bring me Sebastian!” Sherlock shouted. The room went silent, “Say, Tiger-Lily is here to see him,” Greg had never seen a room clear so quickly. One bald boy tripped on the stairs and was near tramped by the mob. Sherlock rolled his neck in anticipation. “Have your gun at the ready.”

Greg had never been so lost in his life. He reloaded the gun and held it at the ready. The noise died down, Greg heard the floorboards creak above him; he looked up to see each footfall cause dust to rain down from the ceiling. The door opened slowly and the smoke began to clear.

A man stepped down the stairs slowly. He licked his chapped lips and took the stairs one at a time. He only had eyes for Sherlock.

“You’re back,” he said in a low hollow voice.

“I need a man dead.”

The tow-headed man lifted an eyebrow, “Which man?”

“A very powerful man.”

The man laughed, “Which man?”

“The mole.”

The man just stood there laughing, “So you’ve found him?”

“Found him? He was right under my nose... quite literally,” Sherlock narrowed his gaze in on the man who had appeared silently at the top of the stairs. Greg drew up his gun and Sebastian drew his as well, pointing it directly at Greg.

The man tapped his shoe on the ground, “Wasn’t easy, was it?” he stuffed his hands in his pockets and scurried down the stairs. He landed on the cement with both feet, “And just when I think I have you figured out, you go and double cross me. That wasn’t very nice, now was it, Sherlock? I’ve given you everything and yet you continue to give nothing in return.”

“I know where my loyalties lie.”

“Mm, wrong answer,” The man closed his eyes and looked pained at Sherlock’s response.

 

* * *

“I really wish it didn’t have to come to this, Jim. It was fun while it lasted,” Sherlock said, staring him down.

“Really, what gave it away?”

“Your little extortionist happened to let the word slip.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed in on him.

“You really should choose your employees more carefully,” Sherlock said with a smirk, “There really is no honour among thieves.”

“I’ll make note of it to have her removed from payroll,” Jim said with a snarky tone, “I really worked hard on this,” Jim said with a sigh of disappointment, “Why couldn’t you just make it _easy_ for me?”

“And kill Mycroft for you?”

“Yes!” Jim said with an aggravated groan, “Do you have _any_ idea how difficult it is to send a bullet through that man’s brain?”

“There was no mole; there’s never been a mole.”

“Took you a while,” Jim said with a look of disgust.

“Did you honestly believe I’d never find out?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Perhaps after the fact, maybe,” Jim shrugged, “This your boyfriend?” Jim looked at him with a grimace, “A bit _old_ isn’t he? If I had to venture a guess... I’d say he’s what? 31? Police Constable for two years, two half-sisters, five nieces and nephews, biological father and mother both deceased, and wait for it, big shocker...” Jim said with a pregnant pause, “He was the one who let that boy Henry Knight die and never reported it to the police. They never did find the boy’s body, did they?” Jim smirked, “He is a bit _naughty_ , isn’t he?” Jim looked at Lestrade with a malicious grin, “You do remember, don’t you? Or have you started believing your own story?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Lestrade turned off the safety and held the gun pointed directly at Jim’s head.

Jim mimed zipping his lips, “Sure you didn’t,” He murmured through the side of his mouth. He drew a hand up to his mouth. “Oops, did I say that out loud?”

“I was fifteen, he had a fit in the water, I panicked.”

“And left him to die,” Jim said with a pout. There was a thundering sound of footfall above their heads; Jim gave the ceiling a look of disbelief, “What the-“ Everything became a blur. Five shots rang out before the police started flooding the basement.

“Drop your weapon!”

Lestrade unloaded the gun and placed it on the floor. He stood and put his hands up.

Sherlock shifted his foot out of the pool of blood that had collected near the drain in the floor. They watched as the police placed Jim in handcuffs. Lestrade rested his hands on his head and closed his eyes. He appeared to be praying.

“Lestrade.”

“Yeah, Sherlock.”

“You’re a shit shot.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade let out a deep breath, “Now is not the time for jokes.”

“You can put your arms down,” Sherlock started walking to the stairs.

“Sherlock, where are you going?”

Sherlock just shook his head and walked up the stairs.

 

* * *

Greg looked at his fellow police officers, none of which he knew personally, all working away and completely ignoring him as Sherlock climbed the stairs.

_I just shot a man... Why am I not being arrested?_

Greg put his hands down tentatively, “Am I?” Greg didn’t know what to ask.

“You’re free to leave, whenever you’re ready,” The officer told him. Greg nodded slowly to the sergeant, trying to register what was going on. He started walking but kept looking back at the crime scene. Only one bullet made its mark. He could see the man’s chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The man had pointed his gun at Sherlock and Greg had snapped. He attempted several kill shots and ended up shooting the man in his meaty inner thigh. There was a massive amount of blood loss. A small crimson river was travelling down into the drain in the floor.

The young man in handcuffs looked at Greg with a wicked smile on his face that made Greg’s skin crawl. Greg climbed the stairs keeping a close eye on him. He saw Sherlock standing in the kitchen, speaking with his brother.

“In the future, Constable, I would appreciate you _not_ tackling me before I have a chance to explain myself,” Mycroft licked his lips, “I was trying to prevent you two from putting yourselves in the line of fire. Instead, you directly disobey me and ran off to face Moriarty yourself. What could you have been possibly thinking?” Mycroft’s attention snapped to Sherlock.

“Is he not in police custody?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft started gritting his teeth, “You could have been _killed,_ ” Mycroft let out a sigh,  “You are far too trusting of your friend Raz,” Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “You’re free now,” He looked to Sherlock who’s expression was stoic, “Next time, come to me directly when you’re in trouble. I can’t always be there as a safety net when you decide to screw up.”

“I was the one that saved you! He wanted you dead.”

“Must you be such a child?” Mycroft said rubbing his forehead, “If it wasn’t for _you_ there would have been no threat,” Mycroft let out a sigh and reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope, “You wouldn’t allow me to give these to you earlier, Constable. Not that they’re of any use now.”

Greg opened the envelope, “Train tickets?”

“I had even arranged for you to stay close to the rehabilitation facility.”

“I’m not going,” Sherlock said, glaring at him.

“Sherlock, need I explain what will happen if you don’t?”

“I’ll go on the run.”

“Your copper wouldn’t follow,” Mycroft said plainly. Sherlock bit his bottom lip in thought.

“How long is the programme?”

“Ninety days.”

“Sod that,” Sherlock said turning to leave, “Laters.”

“I am so lost,” Greg said, shaking his head.

“Sherlock has been working for an international drug lord, who was intent on destroying me so he could continue his work uninterrupted. He made up a clever little puzzle for Sherlock to solve and in the end was supposed to dispose of me. Downstairs you were introduced to the second most deadly man you will ever meet, James Moriarty.”

“Who’s the first?”

“Me,” Mycroft said with a wry smirk.

 

* * *

_Tiger-Lily._

Mycroft knew he was drowning and was coming to save him. Sherlock felt like such a fool. When the phone started ringing upstairs he knew Mycroft had been framed and what he was supposed to do: kill his brother or be killed. Sherlock didn’t want to admit Mycroft had saved him.

Mycroft would have never caught Jim otherwise if Sherlock hadn’t approached Jim then and there. Sherlock was certain he made the rational decision. He had one chance to lure Jim into a trap and he fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. It was almost too easy.

It was almost fate that Raz had decided to visit his normal pick-up location to have a smoke. The rat must have run to the first telephone he found and gave away their location. He would be rewarded handsomely; Sherlock was certain Mycroft would see to it. The bastard had already saved his life once before when Sherlock started having seizures outside his flat. He owed Raz far too much. Any other junkie would have left him to die.

He didn’t want to believe he got lucky; that he’d planned all this from the beginning. If it wasn’t for Mycroft’s obsessive meddling Mycroft would have been blind-sided.

Mycroft was far too clever and had too many resources at his disposal. He couldn’t help but think Mycroft had an ulterior motive for sending him to rehab. It had something to do with Lestrade and he wasn’t about to sit around and wait for Mycroft’s plan to unfold.

He had just had his life on the line yet he knew it wouldn’t distract Mycroft for one minute. He was on a mission and he would never stray from his campaign. Sherlock’s head started swarming.

_Jim’s taken care of, for now. We’re not out of the woods yet._

Lestrade stepped outside to see Sherlock pacing the alley.

“This is a bit much...” Lestrade said scratching the back of his head, “I need some time to get my head wrapped round things, you know?”

“I can get clean once more, without rehab,” Sherlock said looking at him with sorrowful eyes, “I need you,” he said pathetically.

“I just can’t begin to understand what’s going on with you. Your brother. Everything,” Lestrade pressed his back against the wall and squatted, “This is just... mad...” he pointed his hand to the window well they’d climbed through earlier, “I mean, what were you doing? Working for a drug lord?”

“I lost my connection with reality. I was a bit blind.”

“A bit?” Lestrade looked up at him. Sherlock didn’t want to be scolded, he felt bad enough for being proven a fool.

“I was greedy.”

“He just showered you with everything and you thought that meant he cared? That he’d keep you safe?” Greg rubbed his forehead, “That’s how these bastards get you. It’s just like the man giving out free sweets in the back of his van!” Greg let out a groan, “Sherlock, you’re so smart, why would you ever fall for such a thing?”

Sherlock looked at the ground, Lestrade had struck a chord. Jim offered an out, a cure for his boredom. He tempted him with expensive clothes, drugs, money, anything he wanted was his, and all he had to do in exchange was give Jim his soul. Sherlock was lucky to walk away with his heart intact, because Jim would have burned it right out of him given the chance.

“What are we going to do?” Lestrade asked putting his head in his hands.

“We?” Sherlock.

“Yes, we,” Lestrade sat fully on the ground and placed his arm on one knee, “I’m not giving up on you. I won’t let you go without a fight.”

Sherlock kneeled beside him and drew him into a hug. He wasn’t letting go without a fight either.


	24. Chapter 24

“Sherlock! Would you get off the damn computer for two seconds!” Greg shouted from up the stairs. He rushed down to see Sherlock staring at the computer screen, “I need to use the phone!” Sherlock offered up his mobile, “I can’t afford the bill on this thing. I swear we’re getting charged for international calls we’re not making! Oh and by the way, it’s five p a message, just so you know. You ran up a bill, thirty pounds... that’s six hundred messages, in one month, who sends that many text messages?” he asked, grabbing the phone from Sherlock, “What are you looking at?”

“Archives.”

“Fucking web-addict. I’m not getting two phone lines so you can squat on the computer all day,” Greg shook his head, “Go to the library, get a bloody newspaper, go _outside_. Brains are gonna rot out your head,” Sherlock looked up at him and blinked. “Hello,” Greg said sardonically.

“Hi,” Sherlock said looking back at the computer screen.

“Ug,” Greg stormed off with the phone. He held it in his hands for a moment. He tried typing his sister’s number but it wasn’t dialling out. He returned to Sherlock defeated. Sherlock held out his palm. Greg placed the phone in the cocky bastard’s outreached hand. Sherlock dialled his sister for him and pressed send, “Thanks,” Greg said begrudgingly. He put the phone to his ear.

He was almost certain mobile phones caused brain tumours. He hated all the new technology in the flat. The VHS player was hard enough to work. The telly didn’t have dials on it. He had four remotes, none of which seemed to work except for Sherlock. He had to stand up to change the channels through the VCR, but first the telly had to be on the right channel, and if the cords were pulled on, even slightly, it sounded like a jet engine taking off in a hurricane.

_State of the art my arse._

“Trish, it's Greg, what are we doing for Christmas?” he put a hand on his hip and watched as Sherlock leaned in closer to the computer screen. He walked over and pulled Sherlock’s chair back so he wasn’t so close. His mum always told him sitting too close to the screen would make his eyes rot.

_“Barb’s in town with the kids the twenty-third through the twenty-seventh.”_

“Mike isn’t coming?” Greg listened to silence on the other line, “Hello?”

_“No, he isn’t, don’t go butting in.”_

“Divorce?”

“ _What did I say?”_ his sister snipped.

“Alright fine, I won’t say anything,” he let out a sigh and gripped the back of Sherlock’s chair.

“You’re hovering,” Sherlock said, clicking on a link to another article. Greg leaned in close to kiss Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shied away and Greg grinned.

_“The children are in a play at the church.”_

Greg grimaced, “Lemme guess, they’re playing Mary and Joseph?”

 _“Ha. Ha, Greg,”_ he could almost feel the sarcasm oozing out of the phone, _“Joseph is one of the wise men and Mary is a... she’s a sheep,"_ she mumbled. Greg snickered, _“They didn’t have any other girl parts, Gregory. She’s very upset about it.”_

“Oh come on, it isn’t that Baah-d,” he bleated.

 _“Bastard._ ”

“Love you too,” Greg laughed, “Look, I was thinking dinner at mine-“

_“No.”_

“I’m bringing Sherlock either way,” Greg said firmly, Sherlock looked up at him and made a face, “Our flat isn’t some perverted love dungeon, so you know.”

“Yeah right,” Sherlock grumbled, typing away at the computer. Greg flicked the back of his head and Sherlock didn’t even flinch. The printer whirled to life and Greg stepped away so he could hear his sister over the noise.

“When’s the play?”

_“Christmas Eve, seven o’ clock.”_

“We’ll be there.”

Sherlock turned abruptly in his chair, “Which church?”

“Which church?” Greg looked at Sherlock in question.

_“St James.”_

“St James,” Greg repeated.

Sherlock thought a moment, “Fairly certain I haven’t been banned from there.”

“What?” Greg asked in shock.

 _“What?”_ his sister asked annoyed.

“Nothing.”

_“We’ll do dinner at ours.”_

“Fine, see you then,” before his sister could say goodbye he handed the phone to Sherlock to hang up, “What do you mean _banned?_ How do you get banned from a church?”

“A multitude of ways actually. They don’t take lightly to people dipping their hands in the offertory basket. God and aren’t the Catholic churches the worst?” Sherlock let out a sigh, “They pass it around and expect people _not_ to grab a handful of cash. They bleed their members dry. I consider it a service, putting the money to good use.”

“By... buying... drugs,” Greg said in disbelief.

“Morals, they’re so... subjective,” Sherlock said with a wave of the hand, dismissing the notion, “Besides, that was the old me. I’m a model citizen now, am I not?”

“Damned halo is held up by your horns.”

Sherlock chuckled, “I may be on the side of the angels but I never claimed to be one.”

“Didn’t mean to yell at you earlier.”

“Yes you did.”

“Holidays have always been stressful. I just want everything to go smoothly.”

“Why do you even bother spending time with your family? They don’t even _like_ you,” Sherlock pointed it out as obvious fact.

“I just... do. All right? Can’t explain it.”

“They’re hardly even blood-related I don’t see the point of bothering,” Sherlock let out a sigh.

“Speaking of blood.”

“No,” Sherlock groaned, “I don’t care if Mycroft wants me over for Christmas. Just tell him to bugger off already.”

“You tell him, I’m tired of being your page boy”

“If anything you’re my squire.”

“Great, I’ve been promoted. Thank you my liege.”

“Think nothing of it,” Sherlock said passing him the freshly printed papers.

“What’s this?”

“Your grandmother’s house, it was once a home for disfigured and mentally disturbed children.”

Greg took a look at the headline, “A woman died in that house?”

“She was smothered in her sleep. It was uncertain whether it was the children or the keeper of the house.”

Greg gulped, “Didn’t happen in that clown room, did it?”

“No, it was in your grandmother’s former room.”

“Oh God,” Greg said in disgust, “We did... _things_ in that room,” Greg felt overwhelmed with creepy crawly jitters. He started itching, “So why’d they bar off the children’s rooms?”

“The keeper of the house threw the children out on to the street to fend for themselves and sealed off the rooms so they couldn’t return. Before the police could try him, he was found hanging from a tree in the garden.”

“Yep... that’s the stuff of nightmares there,” Greg nodded, “So their little disfigured ghosts are probably taking up residence in those rooms now, after all these years, finally allowed in,” Greg felt goose bumps, “Little Mary and Joseph are going to become possessed with their spirits and start a killing rampage all because the Edison doll told them to kill, kill, rar, rar, rar,” Greg growled, mimicking the doll's voice.

“Or... people won’t want to rent out the place given its history?” Sherlock offered.

“Nutters out there love this stuff. They could turn it into a haunted B&B.”

“That would require a full-time staff and I highly doubt your sister would care to put any effort into the place.”

“She wouldn’t mind dumping all of Barb’s money into it,” Greg chuckled, “Looks like she’s getting a divorce as well.”

“Everyone is nowadays, it’s very fashionable.”

“Chances are Trish is going to get stuck in that haunted house,” Greg walked over to take a seat on the sofa.

“Are you working on Christmas?”

“Unfortunately,” Greg said with a sigh, “Drew the short straw. I really need to make Sergeant in March. Can’t afford all of... this,” Greg swept his hand towards the flat, “You know... you could get a job.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

“Are you even looking anymore?” Greg shifted to look at Sherlock, “And I don’t mean selling drugs or prostitution. A proper job. I mean, hell, you going to uni would be better than you sitting round the flat all the time. At least then you’d be working towards something.”

“You’re nagging.”

“I know,” Greg groaned, “I can’t help it.”

“I’ll look into _something,_ ” Sherlock said with an aggravated sigh.

“Tesco-“

“No.” Sherlock said plainly.

“You know if it wasn’t for Mrs Hudson ‘making too much food’ we’d be in the poor house.”

“You over-exaggerate our finances. You just don’t like seeing others sitting idly while you work,” Sherlock stood and pushed his chair in.

“Sherlock... where’s my chequebook?” Greg asked with a furrowed brow. Sherlock pulled the chequebook out of his trouser’s pocket and tried to hand it over to Greg, “Get over here,” he pulled Sherlock over by his hand. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and looked him over.

“Going to spank me?”

Greg grabbed the chequebook and pointed it at him, “No. You wish,” he said with a smirk, “I have a worse fate for you,” Sherlock let out a little growl of detest, “We’re going Christmas shopping,” Sherlock fell over Greg’s legs, laying his stomach flat on Greg’s lap.

“I’ll take the corporal punishment, s’il vous plait,” he said sticking his rump in the air.

Greg’s hand hovered a moment, very tempted to lay a swift smack across Sherlock’s ass. He tapped him lightly with the chequebook.

“Ow, I won’t be able to walk for weeks,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

“Sit up,” Greg said with a groan. Sherlock stood, turned around, and took a seat on Greg’s lap, “If I go smacking you round when you’re in trouble your prick’s gonna go and get confused and every time you’re in trouble you’ll end up with a raging hard-on.”

“Well, what if I secretly like shopping centres and I sport an erection there?”

“Not my point,” Greg glared at him when Sherlock wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed their foreheads together. “You’re still in trouble.”

“I want a super Nintendo.”

“What am I? Santa?”

Sherlock looked down at his lap, “I still want one.”

“What for?”

“It’s boring here while you’re at work.”

“Get a job!” Greg said trying to stand up but Sherlock refused to budge. He ended up carrying Sherlock bridal style to the front door.

“I’m not ready yet, I haven’t even put my face on,” Sherlock feigned death in his arms.

“Mrs Hudson’s gonna see and think we’re pervy.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Don’t need the landlady knowing it,” Greg dropped Sherlock unceremoniously onto the landing. Sherlock went to turn back into the flat and Greg placed a firm hand on his shoulder, “Eyes forward. March,” He led Sherlock down the stairs, “Should’ve brought my riot gear.”

“Why?”

“The boys want Power Rangers.”

“Oh dear God.”

“Stores are only selling one figure per customer.”

“You’re using me as an extra body?” Sherlock asked in disgust.

“Two boys, two action figures.”

“Can’t they share?” Sherlock groaned, “What ever happened to Action Man?”

“The boys can’t have em, they have guns.”

“And the Power Rangers don’t?”

“They have ‘lasers’,” Greg said making air quotes.

“Action Man’s gun could shoot pretend ‘lasers’,” Sherlock air quoted.

“Action Man has a bayonet on his laser gun.”

“Could get the one with the grenade launcher, technically not a gun,” Sherlock began sulking, “Power Rangers don’t even have battle scars.”

“Would you like an Action Man for Christmas, Sherly-dear?” Greg chuckled as Sherlock jabbed him in the ribs, “You can pick out the Barbie dolls for the girls then.”

“Yes, let’s destroy the little girls’ self images early.”

 

* * *

They went to five other toy stores before trying Hamleys. Sherlock was an insatiable brat in every one of them. Greg couldn’t get him into the first four and couldn’t get him out of the last one. Hamleys was packed, with a queue a mile long, the escalators had to be stopped to let the line wrap around.

“Shit, I really hope this isn’t the queue for those stupid Power Rangers,” Greg looked up five stories. Sherlock poked him on the shoulder. He pointed to the Action Man display, “No. I will be the bloody... coolest fucking uncle ever!” Greg hopped in the queue and Sherlock let out a groan.

Sherlock darted up the escalator, shoving people aside, “Sherlock!” Greg went to chase him and the people on the escalator wised up and started blocking him from running up. Greg looked up in despair as Sherlock ran up to the top floor, “Police!” Greg shouted pulling out his badge. The seas parted and Greg felt a terrible twinge of horror abusing his power. He really shouldn’t have worn a two piece suit to go shopping; he looked like a bloody detective. He rushed up the stairs to find Sherlock with two Power Rangers in hand.

“All they had were pink and yellow.”

“Those are girls,” Greg said with a frown before shaking his head, “Put them down, we’ll go somewhere else.”

“You... _sexist_. What’s wrong with boys playing with girl action figures?”

“Nothing... other than the boys will hate me forever if I get them the only two _girl_ figures from the show.”

Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh and stamped his feet, “I hate Christmas.”

“Come on, Grinch, hands behind your back,” Sherlock put down the toys and put his hands behind his back. Greg ushered Sherlock out of the store by his wrists to massive cheers from the crowd.

“You get off on this don’t you?” Sherlock shook him off as they exited the store.

“It’s cut-throat out there; you can’t hop the queue without blood-shed.”

“I can’t take it any longer. This is moronic, all for a stupid toy!”

“Sherlock, you can’t imagine how important this is to me.”

“That the little brats like you?”

“Yes!”

“Fine!” Sherlock shouted. He pulled out his mobile, “No signal,” he gritted his teeth. Sherlock ran over to the nearest telephone box and used an adjacent tree to climb on top of it. He held his phone up for signal.

“Sherlock! You’re being ridiculous! Not to mention ironic!” Greg smacked his palm against his face. He looked up at Sherlock who stood on top of the telephone box with a batman-like stance as he made a call.

“Mycroft, get me the Power Rangers,” Sherlock demanded with a menacing voice.

 

* * *

Sherlock was bored out of his mind at the flat. He literally itched with boredom. The mystery of Lestrade’s house was entertaining but near completely solved. It took three days of heavy research, three-quarters of which he waited for web pages to load. Lestrade was convinced the world-wide web was a passing fad. Sherlock found it endlessly fascinating.

He began buying domain names, five quid a site. He entered simple words like: porn.com, sex.com, gay.com. He saw great potential for the adult industry on the web and when the time came to set up their web sites, Sherlock owned their domain name.

He was constantly checking his e-mail out of boredom. He’d sunk far too much money into the web. He was down several thousands of pounds which he’d saved up when he was working with Jim. He was nearing broke. Purchasing three hundred domain names a day was getting tiresome.

He was starting to get annoyed with Lestrade’s work schedule and his dull stories of traffic arrests. He wanted something more. He had to ensure that Lestrade got into the CID; that would be interesting. Sherlock wondered how much casework he’d take home with him. The flat could use a bit of graphic rape and murder photographs adorning the walls. Sherlock needed an elaborate serial killer, an unsolved murder, something cryptic and dangerous. The most dangerous thing Sherlock did now was cross the street or step up on a chair to change a light bulb in Mrs Hudson’s flat.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa with the door wide open when the bell rang downstairs. Sherlock listened for the knock.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted, “Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted louder, “Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock let out a huff and pulled out his mobile to dial downstairs. He heard the phone ring downstairs.

He knew she was home. He couldn’t stand for such indolence. Sherlock shot up of the sofa, stormed down the stairs, bypassed the front door, and walked straight into Mrs Hudson’s flat.

“Have you gone deaf? The phone’s ringing,” Sherlock handed her the phone and left the flat shaking his head.

“Sherlock!” She shouted as he left, “Sherlock would you...” She placed the phone up to her ear, “Hullo?”

“Answer the door Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock said pressing the end button firmly before throwing himself back on the sofa and curling up into a ball. He waited for Mrs Hudson to answer the door and for the intruder to climb the stairs.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a false fondness, “Nice of you to invite us over.”

“Us?” Sherlock sat up to see a man with his brother, “Repeat offender?”

Mycroft brought a hand to his face, “This is Tobias Gregson.”

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, lying down, “Using him to get to Lestrade, typical,” Gregson was too skittish around Mycroft for his personality type; the man was whipped, perhaps literally. The suit was a gift going by the price and the length of the sleeves. Mycroft didn’t have him measured beforehand; likely didn’t see him often. The length was off by a full inch, a suit that nice should be tailored; it was a real shame. He was definitely just for show. Attractive, good build, but he was a bit on the scrawny side for his age, not Mycroft’s type at all.

“I needed help carrying in the presents you requested.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “How hard is it to carry two boxes up the stairs? You really aren’t _that_ out of shape, are you?”

Mycroft dumped several large bags of toys on the ground, “Power Rangers, eight inch action figures, the complete set, including the white and green ranger, the Megazord, the Dragonzord, and Titanos, along with several baddies, and all in duplicate.”

“Why didn’t you just bring over the _real_ Power Rangers?” Sherlock sneered. He turned away to face the sofa.

“So resentful,” Mycroft said with a snicker, “And I even got you a present,” Mycroft held out a wrapped box and Sherlock glared at him, “Open it.”

“It isn’t Christmas.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

Growing up Sherlock was notorious for unwrapping presents early. The family had to hide his presents at a neighbour’s house until Christmas morning in fear little Sherlock would tear into them while their backs were turned. They tried hiding them in the house but Sherlock always managed to work out their hiding spots. The neighbour’s poodle was enough to scare Sherlock off and prevent him from breaking into their house to find his presents.

Sherlock snatched the box. It was most obviously some sort of eight inch doll; he could only hope it was an Action Man. He opened it up and snarled at the sight of Ken in a police uniform. Mycroft was very pleased with Sherlock’s reaction.

“Shall I expect to have you over for Christmas dinner?”

“Lestrade is working.”

“Toby has made arrangements to cover his shift so he can enjoy the time off.”

Sherlock curled up with the Ken doll and shut his eyes, “Leave. I’ve grown tired of you.”

“Come Toby,” Mycroft said turning on his heels.

“Yes, _come Toby,_ ” Sherlock said mockingly. Gregson gave him a troubled look before leaving. “ _Whip-ish!”_ Sherlock said, snapping his wrist into the air.

 

* * *

Greg arrived home at two in the morning, groggy, and half-asleep. He looked at the state of the flat and groaned. He walked around the pile of boxes on the floor and saw Sherlock passed out on the sofa with a Ken doll in his arms. He couldn’t help but snort a laugh. He nudged Sherlock’s arm, “Sherlock,” Sherlock pulled away and cuddled the doll closer, “Sherlock.” He laughed. Sherlock half opened his eyes and groaned, “What’s all this?” Greg asked.

“Mm, Christmas,” Sherlock said rolling over to ignore him. Greg leaned over to go through the bags.

“Holy shit! Do you know how impossible these things are to find? Where’d he manage to get all this?”

“Probably stole it from the Whos down in Whoville,” Sherlock grumbled.

“The kids are gonna flip,” Greg said excitedly, “Look at all this! Oh, my sisters are gonna hate me. I mean they said the boys could have Power Rangers, bet they never thought I’d get them the whole fleet.”

Sherlock lolled his head over, “We owe Mycroft Christmas dinner.”

“I’m working.”

“His flavour of the month is taking over your shift.”

“Who’s that?”

“Gregson.”

“God, can he do that?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock shrugged.

Greg took away his Ken doll, “How about you have a cuddle with the real deal? Come to bed,” He held out a hand for Sherlock. “Sides, I’m more anatomically correct.”

Sherlock reached out for the doll once more, “This one snores less.”

“I only snore when I’m dead-beat tired or drunk.”

“Which is... every night?” Sherlock said rolling over once more.

“Very funny,” He scooped Sherlock up to carry him into the bedroom.

“You know I hate being carried.”

“No you don’t,” Greg dropped him on the bed with a thud.

“Mrs Hudson is going to figure out we never use the upstairs room.”

“She’s going to find out from all the noise you make.”

“I do not,” Sherlock said indignantly.

“Hey, I'm not complaining,” Greg chuckled as he started to strip for bed. He started ripping off his stab vest and letting out a heavy sigh. He removed his tie and stripped his socks off. He saw Sherlock looking intently, “No. Not tonight, I’m beyond beat,” Sherlock licked his lips sensually and gave him a wink, “Can’t you turn your sex appeal on at a decent hour?”

“You’re rarely home at a decent hour and when you are, you’re asleep.”

“I know, ba-“ Greg caught himself before he said ‘baby’. Sherlock hated that pet name for whatever reason and he wasn’t looking to start any fights and get kicked out of his own bed, “We can talk about this in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

“Smart arse,” Greg plopped down into bed, still half dressed.

“It might help you unwind,” Sherlock said running his hands down Greg’s back.

“I just want to sleep,” Greg begged, closing his eyes.

“I just woke up.”

“Not my fault,” Greg grumbled into the sheets. Sherlock started giving him a deep tissue massage and Greg groaned, “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Greg reached back to try grab Sherlock’s hands, “Christmas I promise, we’ll do something.”

“I like unwrapping my presents early,” Sherlock said un-tucking the back of his shirt. His hands ventured under the back of Greg’s trousers to cup his ass.

“All right,” Greg popped up, tackled Sherlock, and pinned him to the bed. He clutched him tightly and draped a leg over him. Sherlock struggled and Greg held him tight, “G’night,” he said, giving him a peck on the cheek. He snuggled in close and constricted every time Sherlock decided to move.

Greg managed three hours of beauty sleep before the alarm went off. He opened his eyes and found himself still wrapped around Sherlock with his morning wood pressing firmly against Sherlock’s side.

“Mm sorry, love,” he rolled over and hit the alarm. He sat up with a groan, “Shower?”

Sherlock let out a sigh, “Fine.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“No,” Sherlock sat up and walked through the door to the semi en suite. Greg heard the shower sputter to life. They rarely got the chance to be intimate; Greg’s work schedule was dominating his life. He never had two consecutive days off to recover fully. He bruised his ribs shortly after Moriarty’s arrest. Sebastian Moran escaped the hospital and was currently at large and Moriarty wouldn’t be tried for another three months.

Sherlock was set to be the star witness at his trial. He had already given the police enough evidence to put James Moriarty away for many many years. Sherlock also gave over the names of several of Moriarty’s cronies and their locations. He was proving to be a valuable informant for the Met. The police couldn’t pay the boy legally but his participation was greatly appreciated.

Greg slipped into the shower behind Sherlock. Being a beat cop had Greg beat; he wanted to stay in the shower wrapped in its heat forever. He scrubbed his hair clean and helped Sherlock lather up his back. Sherlock turned and their lips met in a lazy kiss. Sherlock’s hand started heading south. Greg broke the kiss.

“Mm, Sherlock. Not right now, I have work-“

“And daddy’s beat?” Sherlock gripped him firmly and Greg let out a low growl. He pressed their lips together more firmly. He reached for Sherlock’s cock to find it in a similar state of early morning arousal. Sherlock swatted his hand away and Greg grabbed his hips instead. Sherlock took them both in his hand and started stroking.

Greg let out a low groan and started to attack Sherlock with an open mouthed snog. He thrust up against Sherlock’s prick and felt a tingling sensation run in every which direction from the tips of his toes to his ears. He started to hum with pleasure. The back of his mind kept nagging him about work while the front expressed its desire to be fucked into the floor boards.

Sherlock was using teasing strokes that made Greg ache with need. He pried Sherlock’s hand off and threw him against the wall. Sherlock let out a shocked gasp as his back hit the cool tile. Greg started tossing him off like a pro. Sherlock lifted on to his toes, closed his eyes, and threw his head back. He started to hyper-ventilate and his arms went tense.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, they were glazed over with a mixture of lust and fear. He started biting his bottom lip and whimpering.

Sherlock fell to his knees suddenly and lunged forward to swallow Greg’s cock. Greg started cursing inwardly. Sherlock sucked his cock intently and ran a hand up Greg’s abs. Greg clutched his hand firmly, he thrust forward a few times, and let out a grunt. He came with a heavy sigh. The tension in his lower back released and he felt a sense of euphoria.

Sherlock looked up at him and Greg cupped his chin in his hand, “You didn’t let me get you off,” Greg said in a gentle tone. Sherlock looked away and Greg redirected his attention, “Look at me,” Sherlock gave him a glare, “Why don’t you let me please you?”

“I do,” Sherlock said standing up. Greg went to grab his forearm and Sherlock shook him off as he stepped out of the shower.

“We need to talk about this.”

“No we don’t,” Sherlock said, leaving the bathroom without a towel.

“You had better not be rolling round on the bed-“ Greg stepped out of the shower and into the bedroom, “Use a towel!” Sherlock wrapped himself in the bedsheet and turned on to his side to ignore him. Greg gave him a swift smack on the backside.

“Ow, what’s that for?” Sherlock said glaring at him, “You said you wouldn’t...” Sherlock said rubbing his bottom.

“I’m sorry, you’re just being... so...” Greg let out a sigh and put his hands in the air in defeat, “I dunno,” He went to grab a towel and get dressed.

“Now my prick is going to be confused.”

“It already is!” Greg shouted from the bathroom.

“So what if I don’t orgasm every time?” Sherlock groaned wrapping the sheets over his head.

Greg walked out of the loo scrubbing his head with a towel, “It’s not that! It’s like you’re afraid of having an orgasm. You’re always pushing me away when you get close, it’s not... it just...” Greg struggled to find the words, “Doesn’t exactly make _me_ feel... good. You know?” Sherlock grabbed a pillow and pressed it against his head, “Whatever, I have to go. You just... wallow for all I care,” he pulled his uniform on roughly and left in a hurry, forgoing a cup of coffee.

Why couldn’t Sherlock just make life easy?

 

* * *

Sherlock sat stirring in torrid agony. He couldn’t lie down on the pew or discuss his theory of parthenogenesis with Lestrade.

“Say there was no fertilization and some miraculous apomixis event occurred to create a new individual, Jesus would be female. Where did the Y chromosome come from if there was no father?”

“God, Sherlock. It came from God.”

“That’s not even scientific theory! How do you prove-“

“Shut up. Just shut up,” Greg said crossing his arms and shifting uncomfortably.

“How long is this programme?” Sherlock whined.

“Might be here til next Christmas the way things are going,” Greg looked at the other end of the pew where Trisha was sitting. They had spread out their coats to save seats for Barbara and the kids who were running late, “Where are they?” Lestrade shouted over to his sister. She just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

“Running on Barbara Standard Time,” she huffed.

“Why don’t you move closer?” Lestrade said shifting his coat. She took one look at Sherlock and lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock was so tempted to give her the one finger salute. Lestrade forced him to wear a tie even. He felt like he was being strangled. He hated ties, churches, half-sisters, children, Christmas, and being told to sit still. The lights dimmed and Trisha let out a dramatic sigh.

The acting was terrible, even for children. They were given a microphone to speak into, which they held too close to their mouths and breathed loudly into as they read their scripts.

“It’s the same play _every_ year. You’d think the kids could learn their lines,” Lestrade said with a laugh. They started chatting back and forth, completely disregarding all the parents filming the horrid play.

“Look at the size of his video equipment,” Lestrade remarked.

“Compensating for something?” they both snickered and sunk down in their seats when a woman behind them shushed them.

A woman burst through the double doors letting in a blinding light and made her grand entrance with her three children.

“That’s Barb,” Lestrade said leaning in close. She looked like a millionaire heiress. She’d spent far too much time in Paris and adopted a Parisian gait along with a matching wardrobe. Her shoes were too tall for her frame and made her look like an ungulate walking on her toes. Her two girls looked like her clones while her boy was dopey looking with big ears, crooked teeth, and a major hair whorl on the back of his head. His hair looked crunchy from the amount of hair gel his mother used to try keep his hair flat.

It reminded Sherlock of his own mother actively trying to tame his hair. He’d clutch on to her knees, hug her, and cry heavy tears begging for her to stop. It didn’t hurt that much to have a brush run through his hair, he just didn’t like it, and if he cried enough he got his way. He resented Mycroft and his thin baby-like hair. It was always so soft and he’d slap at Sherlock’s hand every time he reached out to touch it. It was like a cross between a bunny’s fur and a duckling’s down feathers, but then he’d put gel in it and it’d become crunchy and gross.

Mycroft was always like that though, taking his best features and ruining them. He waged war on the freckles that resided on the bridge of his nose and forehead and actively tried to conceal them. He dyed his ginger hair a ghastly shade of brown that only faintly resembled his natural hair colour. And worst of all he refused to allow himself to laugh fully.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time his brother burst out into a full belly laugh. His laugh boomed and could shake the foundations of the house. It was highly contagious even when Sherlock was in a dreadful mood.

Sherlock had once fallen off his horse when it was spooked by a twig in the river and Sherlock was dumped face first into the river’s bank. His mother had screamed bloody murder and Mycroft rode over in a panic to find his brother covered from head to toe in mud. Sherlock stood up and felt the strong urge to cry for his mummy. Instead Mycroft roared with laughter to the point he almost fell off his own horse. Sherlock laughed along, finding the situation rather humorous after all.

His brother had a wicked sense of humour and loved to laugh at Sherlock’s misfortune. When his father left he seemed to take Mycroft’s laughter with him.

Sherlock was snapped out of his daydream when he heard Lestrade start to snore softly. His head slowly fell onto Sherlock’s shoulder and he nestled in close. The man was overworked. He needed a holiday but Sherlock didn’t want him anywhere near Mycroft when his brother’s plans still remained uncertain.

Gregson was a rouse; perhaps even foreshadowing what was to come. Sherlock knew how dangerous his brother was but he had one weakness that Sherlock didn’t: sentiment for his brother. Lestrade was safe as long as he didn’t cause any harm to Sherlock. If he broke Sherlock’s heart he most certainly would meet his maker.

Lestrade jerked awake when the lights came back on. The children took their bows and Sherlock praised the Lord the damned play was over. Something about children singing made his skin crawl.

They walked back to the station wagon with Trish and her offspring. The sheep sulked while the shepherd scrubbed his face.

“I thought Joe was supposed to be a wise man,” Lestrade said, discreetly holding Sherlock’s hand in the dark.

“They gave the part to a _girl,_ ” Trish said, gritting her teeth.

Lestrade snorted, “Why didn’t they just slap a beard on Mary then?”

Mary crossed her arms and glared at the ground as they walked.

“ _Gregory,”_ his sister warned.

“Could’ve been far worse, did you see the trees? At least you were an animate object, sweetheart. Best sheep of the herd.”

“I was the _only_ sheep,” she said with a look of disgust.

They walked down a few more blocks to the parked car; all the while Joe kept whacking his sister in the head with his staff while their mother shouted, “Joseph! Stop herding your sister!”

Sherlock and Lestrade fell back. Lestrade placed an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock felt a really strange feeling inside him. Lestrade leaned in for a chaste kiss and Sherlock tripped over himself. Lestrade laughed heartily and Sherlock blushed. His sister shot them a look and Lestrade went back to holding his hand much to Sherlock’s relief.

Sherlock wasn’t looking forward to the Feng shui of the station wagon. The sheep took up two seats and the back was stacked with presents so Sherlock was stuck up front on the bench seat crammed between Lestrade and his sister. He felt incredibly uncomfortable, especially since Trish hadn’t said a word to him and spoke through Lestrade although Sherlock was sitting right next to her.

Sherlock shimmied to the left, closer to Lestrade. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee and stuck his head out the window to view oncoming traffic.

“All right, you’re good.”

“You know if you didn’t buy all those stupid presents I could see out the rear window,” Trisha swerved on the icy roads. Sherlock was the only one without a proper safety belt and felt like one solid tap on the brakes was going to send him through the windshield.

They reached the house in one piece and Sherlock stood outside to smoke with Lestrade. He noticed Lestrade kept glancing over to the house.

“Remember, it’s haunted,” Sherlock said, pulling out his packet of cigarettes.

“It should be _my_ haunted house.”

“I thought you were over that,” Sherlock sighed. Sherlock saw Barbara and her children pull up and park on the street. They crossed the road and went inside without a word, “Am I invisible?” Sherlock finally asked.

“They... they just don’t get it.”

“What’s not to get?” Sherlock shrugged. He lit up his cigarette and took a much needed drag. Lestrade’s hands shook as he lit up, “Cold?” Sherlock knew he was nervous, it was all so superfluous. Christmas was just an excuse to pour money into the economy and have forced social interactions with one’s family. Sherlock hated obligations especially when they caused inner torment.

Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke and decided to be the bigger man. He pulled Lestrade close, “Don’t worry the children are easily persuaded with bribes. You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“I don’t want them to eat out of my hand.”

“Metaphorically of course.”

Lestrade snorted and flung his cigarette end into the street. Sherlock drew him closer and pressed their bodies together. “There’s no mistletoe.”

“Speaking of obligate parasites-“ Sherlock looked inside the house.

“Watch it.”

Sherlock rubbed their noses together in a disgustingly mushy sign of affection, “Kiss me like a French-man,” Sherlock said with a purr. Lestrade grabbed his ass and smiled flirtatiously. Sherlock nipped playfully at Lestrade’s lower lip and they started stumbling backwards snogging away. Sherlock pushed him back until he bumped up against the gate.

Lestrade broke away, “The window’s open.”

“Let em see how a real man kisses.”

“I hope you mean me,” Greg ran his tongue up Sherlock neck. It was so cold his breath was showing and they both started laughing. Lestrade wrapped him tight in his arms and looked up, “It’s snowing,” he said with a grin. A snowflake landed on his cheek and melted right away.

“Beautiful,” Sherlock wiped the snowflake off his cheek and replaced it with a kiss.

 

* * *

Greg entered the house with Sherlock in tow. He was instantly struck with the lack of smell. No roast meat, no rolls, no baked sweets, nothing.

“Erm, what’s for dinner?” he asked, pulling off his scarf and hanging up his coat. The living room was relatively the same, the sofa was replaced and there was a recliner, but something was severely amiss, “The piano,” he said out loud, “Where’s the piano?”

“I sold it,” Trish said casually from the kitchen.

Greg’s mouth opened but no words formed. He couldn’t believe his father’s piano, the one he’d learned to play on, the one his grandmother was holding for him, waiting for him to pick it up, it was gone. He felt his heart drop.

In its place was a Christmas tree that was so tall it scraped the ceiling. She probably paid a small fortune for it. What else in here was bought with his father’s piano?

Sherlock seemed unfazed and continued to hang up his coat. 

“And you are?” Barb asked Sherlock like she hadn’t noticed him until now.

“Shagging your bro-“ Greg clamped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sherlock, would you help me retrieve the presents?” Greg dragged him outside once more.

“My coat,” Sherlock protested. Greg slammed the door.

“Shagging your brother? Shagging your brother! Is that your name now?”

“That’s Mr Shagging-your-brother to you,” Sherlock snorted, “They sold your father’s piano, shouldn’t you... you know, leave?” Sherlock clapped his hands together, “I know we’ll have the children open their presents and then take them back and say they can’t have them after all.”

“Sherlock, that’s terrible.”

“Your sisters did the same thing to you with the house,” Sherlock pointed out. Greg opened the boot of the car and started stacking boxes in Sherlock’s arms.

“Shagging your brother, Jesus, Sherlock.”

“Would you rather I detail our sex life?”

“I’d rather you not mentioning it at all. It isn’t polite,” Greg grabbed the first round of gifts and brought them inside. The children looked intently at the stack of presents. Trish kept shaking her head.

“Are those for us?” Timothy looked up at the presents hopefully.

“Of course,” Greg said with a smile.

“Woo!” He went to raise his arms in celebration but his mother shot him a look, he put his arms down and blushed. Greg laughed and went out for the second round; Sherlock followed closely.

“Oh right,” Greg spun on his heels suddenly and Sherlock ran into him, “Kid’s names.” 

“Does it matter?”

“You can’t call them by whatever pops into your head. Right, what’re their names then?”

“Do we have to do this?”

“I’ve told you them ten thousand times.”

“I know,” Sherlock groaned.

“Children’s names, go.”

“Dopey, grumpy, sneezy, bashful-“

“Sherlock,” Greg let out a sigh, “Name the transitional elements in order.”

“Scandium, Titanium, Vanadium, Chromium, Manganese-“

“All right, now name the children in order.”

“Why would I care what order they came out in?” he scoffed.

“Why would you care about the transition elements?”

“Molecular orbital theory?” Sherlock suggested.

“Fine, just name them.”

“Mary, Joseph, Tommy-“

“Timmy,” Greg corrected.

“Whatever,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“How’d you like it if I called you... Sherlot?”

“You call me Sherly... isn’t that bad enough?”

“Right, you have two more.”

Sherlock looked at the ground and furrowed his eyebrows in thought, “Rhymes with harlot.”

“Charlotte.”

“And something about semen,” he said waving his hand in the air.

“Gisselle?”

“Yes, jizz, that’s it.”

“Sherlock,” Greg said with a heavy sigh.

“Did I pass?”

“You got two out of five!”

“Three. I got Tommy half right as well as Harlot.”

“You...” Greg went to say something but held back, “You cannot rename those kids.”

“Why not?”

“For one, your little nicknames are rude. For two, they’re not animals. You know, Mrs Turner’s dog doesn’t even answer to his old name any more!”

“Well I figured Rape-knee was far more suiting than Barkley.”

“You are _not_ calling the girls Harlot and Jizz.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said grabbing one box and taking it in while Greg was left with a towering stack of presents. Greg walked in to see his sisters setting up two folding card tables and six chairs. Greg did a mental headcount. They were three chairs short.

Barb pulled on the table cloth while Trish brought out the entree.

“What... the hell... is that?” Greg asked in disbelief. She’d brought out some sort of round pale brown thing that only slightly resembled meat but gave off no real odour.

“I had to go out to Essex to get it; nobody sells anything remotely organic here,” Barb said.

“But what is _it_?” Greg asked once more. Trish cut into it and black and white stuffing started falling out. Greg turned to Timmy. “What is that?” he whispered.

“Tofu... turkey.” he said looking at the faux-meat with the same horror.

“Tofurkey.” Greg said with a grimace, “Aren’t we having anything else?” Timmy shook his head slowly. Barb started setting out forks and knives. Trish brought out a casserole dish and the smell hit Greg full force.

_Asparagus and squash._

He saw Timmy gag and tried not to encourage him but he had the exact same thought. Joe kept whining about having to sit on the floor.

“Mummy I don’t wanna, it’s _dirty,_ ” Greg was certain none of the girls were going to end up on the floor.

“Gregory... do you mind?” Trish said, giving him ‘the look’.

“Nope,” He took a plate and placed it on the coffee table. She handed him another plate for Sherlock and Greg handed it off. Sherlock took a seat on the floor and looked up at Greg with a sour look. Greg sat next to him and put a reassuring hand on his knee, “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“She’s so afraid she’ll contract HIV she won’t even look at me,” Sherlock crossed his arms, “Would you tell her I’m clean?”

“She doesn’t want to think about us in bed.”

“I don’t want to think about her in bed either,” Sherlock said looking at the food, “What the fuck is this shit?”

“Sh, language. Looks vegetarian.”

“What the hell is _wrong_ with these people?”

“Barb probably thinks vegetarianism is a fad diet.”

Timmy plopped down at the coffee table with an empty plate.

“Who wants to say grace?” Trish asked from the table.

“I pray we don’t choke on this shit,” Greg mumbled. Timmy started snickering. Barb reached out for Timmy’s hand, he grabbed Greg’s, Greg grabbed Sherlock’s, and Trish gave Sherlock a look before reaching out for his other hand.

Barb led them in prayer, “Bless us O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” They ended. Trish let go of Sherlock’s hand and wiped it on her trouser’s leg. They waited for their bounty and the three boys on the ground just stared at their offering.

“M’not hungry,” Timmy said looking at the deformed loaf of not-meat.

“Can’t blame you,” Greg said. Sherlock started poking at it. He took a bite and Greg looked on with hope, “How’s it taste?”

“Like gelatinized bread,” Sherlock said taking a second bite, “Salty gelatinized bread.”

“Does she really think you like this stuff?” Greg asked Timmy.

“I have a snickers.”

“Share the wealth.”

Timmy pulled the chocolate bar out and started breaking it up, “He want some?” Timmy said pointing to Sherlock.

“Looks like he’s a fan of soggy bread,” they covertly started eating the Snickers bar, “Times like this, could use a dog.”

“A dog wouldn’t eat this,” Timmy grimaced.

“I wouldn’t have eaten this as a kid and I went days without eating.”

“Really?” Timmy looked up at him.

“Mum couldn’t always put food on the table.”

“Gran was poor?”

“No Timmy, your mum and I have different mums.”

“Huh?” he looked at him confused.

“It’s complicated; we’ll leave it at that,” Greg said and Timmy nodded in agreement. Timmy started chopping up his food and pushing it around to make it look like he ate something and Greg followed suit. Sherlock finished off his fake-meat and left the veg.

“Houses only got one loo,” Timmy grimaced, “Asparagus is nasty, makes your pee all nasty smelling.”

“Several of the metabolites yield ammonia and sulfuric degradation products. Gives the urine a foetid smell. White asparagus is the worst,” Sherlock said looking at the vegetables on his plate.

“Says the man that just ate Tofurkey,” Greg chuckled.

“I don’t need the putrid smell of methanethiol stinking up the bathroom.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not eating it either,” Greg stood to bring the plates to the sink and discreetly dispose of the uneaten food.

_Such a waste._

Barb started bringing in the dishes and pulled Greg aside in the kitchen.

“Well?” She asked.

“Well what?”

“How old’s this one?”

“Eighteen,” Greg said not catching her drift.

She made a face, “Is he at least nice? To you, I mean.”

Greg looked at her and blinked, “What?” he asked, a little taken aback.

She started drying dishes, “The one from the circus, he was such an ass and we all _knew_ it.”

“You didn’t even meet him,” Greg said looking at his hands in the soapy dish water, “He was a loads worse in person.”

“Well and then there was the Army and you know… I… worry,” she said with a serious tone.

“I didn’t date anyone when I was in the Army.”

“AIDs-“

“Stop there,” he said holding up a hand, “Both Sherlock and I are clean.”

“But for how long?”

“Um?”

“This lifestyle-“

“Alright,” Greg dropped the dishes in the sink. He left the kitchen before he said something he’d regret.

The tables were folded and put away and the children were seated in a semi-circle. Greg joined Sherlock on the sofa, “What’s this?” Greg asked Trish.

“We’re going to open presents,” she said with a smile.

“But it… isn’t Christmas,” Greg said as she started bringing wrapped gifts down the stairs. Greg stood up to help her. He met her at the top of the steps, “What about Santa Claus?”

“The children know he isn’t real.”

“But-“ Greg felt disappointed, “You girls thought he was real.”

“Yes… until you came along and informed us he wasn’t,” she said, pushing past him with another stack of presents.

“It wasn’t my fault! I never had Santa visit. He was about as real as the Flinstones. I mean… you two were a bit past the age of believing.”

“You pretty much ruined Christmas for us that year.”

“Well, _sorry,_ ” Greg said with disgust. He grabbed a few boxes and brought them down the stairs. He sat next to Sherlock and put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder possessively. Sherlock looked at him confused.

Barb joined them on the other side of the sofa while Trish started handing out presents; hers first, of course. The children opened up the boxes and pulled out matching outfits. The girls looked excited and discussed how they’d look like triplets. The boys looked like they were going to vomit profusely. They pulled out matching sailor caps and looked at them in disgust.

The boys opened three more presents, all clothes. Joseph was starting to get annoyed while Timmy put his hands together in prayer. He was murmuring something just barely audible, “ _Please be Goldar, please be Goldar,_ ” He opened the next box, in desperate hope for a toy, and it was socks. Joseph started throwing a fit.

“Joseph what’s wrong with the presents mummy got you?” Trish asked scooping up the socks he’d thrown.

“It’s clothes!” he shouted. Greg knew it was a travesty and a moral outrage to give children clothes on Christmas, even if they were opening their presents early. The girls kept opening dresses and squealing with delight. They all received matching heels in purple, pink, and green, with matching frilly dresses, and tiaras. They were elated with the prospect of playing dress up and fixing each other’s hair.

The boys were irate, even Timmy started grumbling at his presents. Trish handed them the last of her presents and the boys set them off to the side.

“Open them up, I know you’ll like them.”

Timmy ripped open his while Joseph just scowled, “What is it?” he asked, pulling out cow-print chaps and plastic spurs.

“It’s a cowboy costume!” she said excitedly.

“Where’s the gun?”

“At the store,” she said with discontent, “You don’t like it?”

“Thank you, Aunt Trisha,” Timmy said begrudgingly. He stood and gave his Aunt a hug.

“Joseph, won’t you open yours?” Trish asked. Joseph crossed his arm and shook his head, “Barb, it’s your turn.”

“Thanks Aunt Trisha,” The girls said in unison.

“Thank you mummy,” Mary said with a mostly toothless grin.

“Sailors and cowboys, sounds like something you’d see in a bar in Soho,” Sherlock chuckled as Greg elbowed him in the ribs.

Barb started handing out her gifts to the children. Joseph felt the packages and started setting them aside. Timmy opened up book after book. They both looked over to the girls that were getting costume jewelry and board games. Timmy looked over the back of his books, “Nancy Drew?”

“She’s a detective. I know how much you love your detective stories.”

“Thanks, mum,” Timmy said with an air of disappointment.

“And last but not least,” She handed the boys one more gift each.

Joseph let out a sigh, “Finally,” he tore it open to reveal a Meccano set. Trish stood up and immediately confiscated it.

“What’s the matter?” Barb asked Trish.

“There are far too many little pieces.”

“It’s for ages eight and up.”

“And he’s only just turned eight,” She retorted.

“Oh my God,” Barb said putting a hand to her forehead, “Fine, Timothy, now you have two sets,” Timmy slid his toy behind his back and looked up at his mother uncertainly.

Greg stood up to either defuse the situation or add fuel to the fire, “All right, you guys thank your Uncle Sherlock for these.”

“He isn’t their uncle,” Trish mumbled before plopping down on the sofa. Barb took a seat on the opposite end and glared at her sister.

Greg gave the boys their presents first. They tore into them and started screaming. Sherlock covered his ears and winced.

“Megazord!” Timmy shouted.

“I got a Dragonzord!” Joseph shouted back.

The girls all had envy in their eyes. Greg handed them each a large gift and they tore in eagerly. The trio of high pitched shrill screams was enough to break glass and pierce ear drums. Greg started rubbing his ear.

“Girls, settle down,” Barb chided.

“But mummy, it’s a Barbie _dream-house,_ ” Each of them received a different model.

“Mycroft really knows his Barbie dolls,” Sherlock whispered. Greg laughed and started handing out presents faster. It took an hour for the kids to get through them all. Sherlock looked like he was thoroughly bored as he helped Greg removed various toys from their packaging.

“What are these?” Sherlock asked picking up a stuff animal, “A beanbag in the shape of an animal. What’s so fun about this?”

“I dunno, the girls love em though,” He tossed the beanie baby to Greg who looked at the tag, “Chocolate the moose… cute, like chocolate mouse,” He placed the moose on top of Sherlock’s head. Greg was trying to figure out the Megazord and kept looking at the photo, “Why won’t the blasted arms go on?” Sherlock snatched it away and started putting it together. He handed it back assembled, “You’re real good at this stuff.”

“I had transformers,” he shrugged, “And you think a Rubik’s cube is difficult.”

“Those are the little cars that turned into robots?”

“Yep,” Sherlock said removing the moose from his head.

“I’m starting to feel old,” Greg sighed looking over the toys.

“What did you play with growing up?”

“Nothing really… I think I had a stuffed something another. It got lost though in one of the moves. I wasn’t too attached to it. Mostly just watched telly,” Greg looked over at Sherlock, “What’d you have?”

“Psh, what didn’t I have? Mummy bought all the popular toys the year they were released. Her boys had to have the best.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

“What’s the point of having toys if you have no one to play with?” Sherlock grabbed another package and started tearing into it. The boys started having an epic battle with the baddies and both sets of Power Rangers. Trish stood up and left the room after Barb said something. Greg’s curiosity got the better of him and he joined Barb on the sofa.

“What’s the matter?”

“She doesn’t want the boys battling with the Power Rangers.”

“But that’s what Power Rangers… _do_.”

“She wants them to work out their problems with words.”

“Is that what she said?” Greg laughed.

“No, but she may as well have,” She sighed.

“She wouldn’t even let me give Joe a set of handcuffs.”

“Timmy loves his,” Greg looked at her with a bit of shock, “Oh yeah, he’s always handcuffing the girls together and throwing them in jail. I mean… boys have to be boys or else they end up all repressed. Girls are just the same. And it’s not just gender specific. Kids have to be kids, you know? Or else they end up like us.”

Greg started laughing, “Us?”

“You didn’t have a childhood and mum wouldn’t let Trish and I leave ours. Look at us. Failed marriages, no education, no sort of career prospects, and you’re gay.”

“And that’s a bad thing? The being gay bit,” Greg said uncomfortably.

“You’ll never have children.”

“You two took care of that,” he motioned to the children.

“You’ll never get married.”

“Never get divorced either,” he looked at the hurt in his sister’s eyes, “Look we all turned out _fine_. None of us are in prison, we have our health, you two have five beautiful children, and we’re all together on Christmas Eve. Things could be _much_ worse,” Greg looked to the children who were playing peacefully, “And Timmy’s an amazing kid.”

“He’s so much like his father,” she started to tear up.

“What’s the story with Mike?”

“He never has time for us. We hardly ever see him anymore,” she said grabbing a tissue to blow her nose.

“Is that all?”

“I just can’t do it on my own.”

“So getting a divorce will…”

“Allow me to find a man who will be there for my children.”

Greg snorted, “Yeah, not gonna happen. Go back to Mike, apologise, profusely, and get on with your life, cos men don’t give two shits about someone else’s kids and if they do, most likely they’re a paedophile,” Greg shook his head, “Maybe Mr Right is out there; chances are he lives in the Australian outback or summat and guess what? He’s likely got kids of his own. Sorry, sweetheart, Mike’s as good as it gets and the sooner you get that through your head the sooner you’ll be able to enjoy life.”

“How can you say that?” she cried.

“My mum spent the better part of my childhood looking for Mr Right and found every Mr Wrong in the phonebook. Nobody was looking to be little Gregy’s new daddy. They either ignored me or smacked me round. You run a huge risk bringing some bloke into the picture. Even if you’re careful with it, could be years, decades even before you find a good match, and by then you’ve ruined it for yourself and your children.”

His sister burst into tears and turned away from him. She got up to cry in private and likely was going to consult Trish who’d make it worse.

“She always does that,” Gisselle said with an exaggerated sigh.

“So dramatic,” Charlotte said looking at herself in her new hand mirror and fussing with her hair.

Greg looked at his watch, “Sherlock, we’d better get going it’s near midnight, Sherlock?” He looked around and didn’t see Sherlock. Timmy and Joseph pointed to a pile of wrapping paper. Greg started pulling away the paper off of Sherlock to find him fast asleep, using a pile of beanie babies as a pillow. He laughed at the sight, “All right kids, get some sleep, I’m taking Uncle Sherlock home,” Timmy stood up and hugged Greg around his waist.

“Thanks for Goldar,” he said with a grin. Timmy sat back down and started tearing down the city they’d created with stacked up Nancy Drew books. Greg felt all teary eyed and wiped one away before the kids had a chance to see him being sappy.


	25. Chapter 25

Mycroft waited in the sitting room, stroking his fingers idly over the emblem on the envelope on the arm of his chair. The sweltering heat from the roaring fire was starting to make him sweat. He knew his brother would be late; trying to avoid the inevitable. He didn’t expect the Constable would allow him, but then again Sherlock was a very persuasive person when he wanted to be.

It made very little sense to him that a man of Gregory’s age and grandeur would bother with such a morose little child. It wasn’t that Mycroft believed Sherlock didn’t deserve a companion (of sorts); quite the contrary, Sherlock should have a friend, perhaps even a lover, just not this Gregory Lestrade person. Their relationship was founded on some sort of sick perversion. From personal experience Mycroft knew this wasn’t the proper way to build the foundations for a solid and healthy adult relationship.

He was convinced Sherlock would never grow up. He cared nothing for the consequences of his action especially when his actions hurt others. If he wasn’t directly affected then he wasn’t bothered. If Sherlock refused to be an adult then he shouldn’t be allowed to be in an adult relationship. It was as simple as that.

However, Gregory Lestrade couldn’t be done away with completely. Sherlock would have emotional ties to him for years to come. He knew all too well from Sherlock’s manic obsession with Harry Havill. It was quite possible the boy had even _loved_ him.

The thought disgusted Mycroft to no ends. Even the mere thought of Harry touching Sherlock made his blood boil. He had used Sherlock’s emotions against him, took advantage of the defenceless boy, and Mycroft allowed it to happen. He should have known on that cold winter’s afternoon when Sherlock had gone searching the woods for him. All things came to a head when he heard Sherlock’s voice cry out, “I’m not Mycroft!”

Mycroft swallowed his anger and placed the memory in a special place, deep in the recesses of his mind to be drawn upon later when the time was right.

_Never forget what could happen, what has happened. History will not repeat itself._

There was a knock on the door and Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

_Why must the police knock like they are trying to burst through the door?_

He opened the door to see Sherlock’s face with Gregory behind him, preventing his escape. Sherlock had put up a fight. Sherlock’s buttons were misaligned, off by one button. Gregory had to force Sherlock into clothing. No wonder they were late. Mycroft noticed the claw mark that was visible on Gregory’s collarbone, right next to his throat. It was a serious fight.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” Gregory said, clearing his throat at the end. He was hoarse from yelling. Mycroft looked to Sherlock who wasn’t concealing his hatred for Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t have an ounce of remorse for lashing out at his... _boyfriend._ Mycroft cringed at the thought.

He narrowed his gaze in on Gregory’s bottom lip that was split on one side, “Gregory if you would wait in the dining room, I’d like a word with my brother, outside,” Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and dragged him outside. He slammed the door shut.

Before Mycroft could even think his hand acted on its own accord; he delivered a smart backhanded smack across Sherlock’s face. Sherlock recoiled from the blow but turned to look Mycroft directly in the eye. Mycroft searched his eyes for some sign of humanity.

“If you lay so much as a finger on that man again-“ Mycroft started.

“It was an accident,” Sherlock’s face changed abruptly and he let out a shuddered breath.

“And when Sebastian nearly bashed your head in, was that an accident as well?”

Sherlock’s bottom jaw quivered slightly, “I didn’t mean to.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw tight, “You lash out at everyone that tries to help you. Like a hound with his foot caught in fox a trap. Do you know what happens to dogs that bite the hand that feeds them?” Mycroft shook his head, “I knew this was the man you would turn into,” Sherlock looked at the ground, “What were you thinking, Sherlock? He’s a policeman.”

Sherlock wasn’t defending himself and Mycroft had him backed into a corner. The damage was light: a scratch, a split lip, maybe a bruise or two. Sherlock should be arguing his case. Mycroft could see Sherlock understood what he did was wrong. He threw a tantrum, somebody got hurt, and that made him sad. This was a major breakthrough. He _cared,_ actually cared, that he’d done something wrong.

“What happened?” Mycroft asked, straightening up to look down on his brother.

“We had a row, he was trying to drag me out the door, and I... lashed out. It was all over in under a minute.”

“Have you apologised?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock nodded, “I would say I didn’t mean to strike you, but we both know that isn’t the case,” Mycroft said plainly, “You deserve it, for all the pain you have put us through,” Sherlock licked his teeth and nodded in thought, “Come inside, dinner is on the table.”

Sherlock walked inside and Gregory pulled out a chair for him. He looked at Sherlock with such sadness in his eyes. No person deserved to be at the mercy of Sherlock Holmes. Gregory was delusional if he thought Sherlock would change and mental if he loved Sherlock for the man he was.

Mycroft took a seat at the head of the table and started uncovering the dishes. Gregory seemed relieved to see the carved roast.

“Hungry?” Mycroft ventured.

“You would not believe what my sister tried to feed us last night,” he said conversationally, “This is a gift from God in comparison. Ever heard of Tofurkey?”

“Tofu, turkey?” Mycroft grimaced.

“Wouldn’t feed it to a dog,” Gregory patted Sherlock on the back, “And Sherlock ate every bite.”

A startled laugh escaped Mycroft. He couldn’t help it. He saw the corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitch into a fleeting smirk in response.

 

* * *

Sherlock felt too sick to eat. An overwhelming guilt consumed him. He’d hurt Lestrade in an attempt to avoid dinner at Mycroft’s. Now they were enjoying themselves at Sherlock’s expense. Sherlock didn’t want to let his guard down but part of him wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. He couldn’t look at Lestrade without noticing what he’d accidentally done to him.

Mycroft’s slap only added insult to injury. Sherlock wasn’t a monster like Sebastian but his brother had compared the two like they were interchangeable. He was not Sebastian. He didn’t deliberately hurt Lestrade. Still, the comparison hurt.

When it came time to exchange gifts, everyone was far more relaxed, including Sherlock. He had eaten some bread to settle his stomach and had half a glass of wine.

Mycroft handed over the violin case and Sherlock felt his fingers tingling as his hands hovered over the beautiful instrument. He could remember the look on his mother’s face when she gave him the violin. She looked at him with anticipation and excitement. She feared deeply that he wouldn’t like it.

When his mother handed it to him, Sherlock opened the case and immediately plucked at the strings. The violin sang for him and Sherlock loved its sound. It was rich and hollow. His mother was elated. Within thirty minutes Sherlock had learned to pluck a very simplified version of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. Sherlock played pizzicato until his brother showed him how to hold the bow and really make the instrument sing.

He played what sounded good and refused to take lessons. His brother had given him staff paper to write his compositions and tried on several occasions to teach him how to read and write music, but it never stuck. He’d hack and saw away until he’d created something that sounded like it did in his mind. Mycroft wanted him to learn to play properly but Sherlock never saw the point of being a part of an orchestra. He was a soloist in every sense of the word.

Sherlock set the violin case aside and silently thanked his brother.

“I have a gift for you as well, Gregory,” Mycroft handed him a small box, about the size of a matchbox. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. Lestrade slid open the gift box to reveal a key.

“I’m sorry, I can’t accept this,” he handed the key back.

“You sold yours so my brother would have a place to stay. It’s the least I can do.”

“I can’t,” he let out a sigh.

“It’s a gift, take it,” Mycroft held out the key.

“Just take it,” Sherlock said with an air of defeat, “Cab fare is getting expensive,” Lestrade looked at the key with uncertainty and ended up taking it.

“Thank you,” Lestrade handed Mycroft his gift, “It’s from both of us.”

“It’s from him,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. His brother chuckled softly. He opened the box and looked at it with surprise.

“This is... some gift,” he said looking the pocket-watch over.

“It was Sherlock’s idea,” Lestrade laughed. Mycroft furrowed his brows and looked over the silver watch; he ran his thumb across its case. He removed his father’s pocket watch from his waist coat and turned it over in his left hand. Mycroft stood and placed the new watch into his pocket. He gripped the old one tightly in his hand.

He strode over to the window with purpose, opened it, letting in a gush of frigid air and launched his father’s watch out the window and into the street. Lestrade looked on in shock. Sherlock smirked. Mycroft regained his composure, shut the window, and returned to his seat.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock saw his father’s black and white portrait on the mantle glaring at him. Even in a photograph void of colour, one could see his piercing tiger’s eyes. Siger, the name suited him. He looked over to his mother’s portrait to see her Mona Lisa smile and kind eyes. She was every bit as sweet and soothing as her name, Violet.

His father ruined her. Sherlock hated how much he resembled his father. He wanted to purge him completely but every time he looked in the mirror he saw _him._

Lestrade excused himself to use the facilities and Mycroft took the chance to give Sherlock his last present. Sherlock looked over the envelope and ran his thumb over the seal.

“When is it for?” Sherlock’s hand shook slightly and he felt his stomach turn over.

“January.”

“Will he get the post?”

“I’m certain of it,” Mycroft’s lips made a thin line.

“Gregson is leading the interview then?” Sherlock asked, nervously licking his lips. Mycroft nodded, “He’ll see that Lestrade is best fit for the position.”

“He is the deciding factor.”

“And if he falls through?” Sherlock asked with an air of cynicism.

“He won’t.”

“And the Superintendent?”

“He’s been transferred.”

“Where to? The Bermuda Triangle?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Sherlock, this is best, for both of you,” Mycroft said, looking pointedly at the letter.

“You think I won’t do it.”

“I’d like to believe otherwise.”

“I’ll do it,” Sherlock said, staring fixatedly into his brother’s eyes.

“This Gregory, he must mean something to you.”

“No,” Sherlock said shortly, “He means _everything_ to me.”


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock had a one-armed death grip on Greg as they slid on the streets. The new Ducati was heavier than he was used to. Sherlock was terrified and Greg didn’t let it show, but he almost lost control several times on the icy roads. The seat was tiny and Sherlock was barely on the bike, clutching on to his violin with one hand.

Fortunately Baker Street was a stone’s skip away and they made it with all their body parts still attached. Both men were left a little shaken up.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, shivering and looking over the bike. They both removed of their helmets.

“Bit of a box, in’t it?” Greg said, rubbing his arms which had gone numb on the ride, “Could’ve done with a Harley, to tell you the truth.”

“It’s free,” Sherlock shrugged.

“True,” Greg took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one up to Sherlock who declined. He placed his helmet on the ground and withdrew a cigarette.

“You miss the crotch rocket?”

“And you don’t?” Greg laughed. He lit up his cigarette and took in a deep drag. He exhaled through his nose, “Why don’t you head inside? It’s freezing.”

Sherlock hugged him out of the blue. He felt Sherlock’s tongue on the shell of his ear. Greg let out a gasp at the freezing cold that followed. Sherlock pulled away when Greg went to kiss him. Greg smiled and kept stepping forward to sneak a kiss.

Sherlock let his lips get incrementally closer before stepping back, teasingly. Greg kept laughing at their little game. He finally grabbed both sides of Sherlock’s face and sunk in a proper kiss.

“Shit,” Sherlock said pulling away. Greg’s attention snapped over to the open door and Mrs Hudson who was looking at them strangely.

“You two,” She said in a chiding tone, “Complete nutters.”

“I can explain-“ Greg started.

“Riding a motor-bike in weather like this,” she said with a tut, “Sherlock, you look chilled to the bone, both of you come inside, and don’t you dare leave that out on my stoop,” She said pointing to the cigarette in Greg’s hand. She ushered Sherlock in and Greg stood outside in shock.

“That went better than expected,” he said to himself. He finished off his cigarette and disposed of it properly and grabbed his helmet. He stepped inside and felt like he was going to melt in the heat. He ran up the stairs, taking two at a time, “Sherlock, we have really have got to be more careful.”

Sherlock lunged forward and shut the door behind him. His hands went straight for Greg’s ass. Greg dropped his helmet on the floor and started pushing Sherlock away from the door. He grabbed Sherlock’s face in his hands and licked and nipped at his lips. Sherlock kept walking backwards. His cheeks started to warm in Greg’s hands. They passed through the kitchen and down the hall, into the bedroom.

Sherlock shut the door and started undressing. Greg gulped and found himself staring at Sherlock’s body. Greg took a seat on the bed and watched intently. Greg slowly removed his own jacket and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. Sherlock pulled down his trousers and pants and kicked them off. He leaned forward and pressed his hands on Greg’s shoulders, pushing him back.

Greg leaned back on to his elbows and felt a rush of nerves as Sherlock made quick work of his trousers. Soon he was completely exposed and being pushed back, further, to the middle of the bed. Sherlock pressed down on top of him and Greg could feel his hard-on rutting against his thigh.

Sherlock started kissing him passionately. Sherlock’s hips continued to grind into him and Greg could feel a wet spot on his inner thigh from Sherlock’s pre-come. Greg breathed raggedly through his nose, feeling increasingly aroused yet overwhelmingly nervous. Sherlock pulled away and reached back into the nightstand for lubricant.

He handed Greg the bottle. Greg flipped the cap, applied a small amount to the palm of his hand, and reached down to stroke Sherlock who eagerly thrust into his hand. Greg started to throb and let his inhibitions go. He lifted his hips to allow Sherlock better access. He pulled Sherlock down to entwine their tongues together in an open mouthed kiss. He felt Sherlock tense.

“Ready?” he asked looking up into Sherlock’s wild eyes. Sherlock licked his lips slowly and rotated his hips.

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly. Greg grabbed him firmly and started easing him in.

It had been far too long. He relaxed and felt the pressure of the initial breech. Sherlock winced and closed his eyes. Greg kept going, breathing in deep breaths, allowing himself to stretch, drawing Sherlock in further until he started feeling his nerve endings start firing. He kept going, working against the strain.

He brought Sherlock in fully and let out a sigh. He felt waves of muscle contractions working to resist the intrusion. He held Sherlock by his flanks and tensed around him a few times, adjusting to the feeling. Sherlock started pulling away and Greg grabbed him firmly. He wriggled his hips.

“How’s it feel?”

Sherlock burbled something incoherently.

“That good, eh?” Lestrade asked with a laugh.

“Unh, Tight,” Sherlock said with a grimace.

Sherlock tried pulling away again.

“No, no, no. You’re gonna finish what you started. I'm not letting go until you come.”

Sherlock let out a whimper. Greg wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and slowly started sliding back and forth against him with shallow thrusts. Sherlock was turning purple from holding his breath; he had his eyes clenched shut.

“Oh yeah, that’s right, baby. Fuck that arse,” Greg growled. Sherlock’s eyes shot open and he let out a loud gasp.

Sherlock clenched his teeth and let out hissing breaths. Sherlock bit his bottom lip and started joining Greg in the shallow thrusts. Greg started stroking himself along with Sherlock’s movements. Sherlock let out an erotic little whine and clenched his fists, grabbing handfuls of the bedspread. He slid in and out slowly with a pained look on his face.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Greg said moving against him faster, “Come for daddy.”

Sherlock snapped his hips and Greg felt a shock wave shoot up his spine. His inner thighs quaked. Sherlock pressed himself in as far as he would go and ground himself in, gyrating his hips roughly. A moan from the depths of Greg’s chest escaped him as Sherlock rocked his pelvis against him. With each snap of his hips, Greg came closer and closer to nirvana. Sherlock grabbed purchase of Greg’s shoulders and thrust into him with a whip like motion, making their skin slap with every jab.

He felt Sherlock start to sink his fingers deeper into his shoulders. Greg winced. Sherlock bucked and his hands darted to Greg’s hips. Sherlock held Greg's hips tight as he let out a loud grunt followed by a long drawn out, “Oh.”

Sherlock clenched his teeth together and pulled out quickly causing both men to wince.

“Ah,” Greg hissed taking in some deep breaths. Sherlock sat on his knees grabbing himself and wincing in pain, “Burning?”

“Mm, sore. Hurts,” he said, cupping himself.

“Helps if you piss right after, relieve some of the pressure.”

Sherlock hobbled off to the bathroom. Greg laughed when he heard Sherlock let out a loud satisfying moan. He heard the toilet flush, the faucets run and shut off. Sherlock returned with a freshly-fucked look on his face.

“Better?” Greg laughed. Sherlock nodded with a dopey smile. He sauntered back into bed. Greg drew him in close and placed his against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock lay flat on his back, running a long finger down Greg’s upper-arm, “Was it good for you?”

“Nah,” Sherlock said with a shrug. Greg looked up at him and Sherlock smiled, “It was fantastic,” He laid a kiss on Greg’s forehead.

“Bout time you got off.”

“I know,” Sherlock said pressing the back of his head against the headboard.

“That pressure build up can’t be good for your cock. Could explode.”

“It did,” Sherlock said with a serious face.

“Yeah, we’re gonna have to change the sheets,” The spunk on Greg’s inner thigh was making his legs slide against one another and was thoroughly grossing him out.  

“Could we do it again?”

“Give it some time to recover,” Greg laughed.

“I meant, you’d let me? Do it again, I mean,” Sherlock looked down at him with uncertainty.

“Yeah, of course... if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock laughed, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

Sherlock hugged him tightly, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome?” Greg laughed nervously. Sherlock slid down to lay his head on the pillow and started to drift off with Greg in his arms.

Greg ran his finger down Sherlock’s sternum, exploring his body and its reactions to fine touch. Sherlock shifted in his sleep. Greg looked up to see his eyes gently closed and his mouth slightly open. He had a youthful glow about him and looked like an angel asleep. He brushed a lock of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. He listened to Sherlock’s heart beat and allowed it to lull him to sleep.

He awoke without Sherlock’s warmth. Sherlock stood at his bedside fully dressed.

“We need to talk.”

 

* * *

Lestrade looked up at him in wide-eyed fear.

“Oh, it’s nothing bad,” Sherlock said with a snort.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock!” Greg shouted, smacking him with a pillow, “Don’t do that to me!”

Sherlock kneeled at his bedside, “You know how you told me I should look into University?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade shifted to sit up in bed.

“Well, I’ve been accepted... to Oxford.”

“Sherlock that’s... great,” Lestrade said with indecision.

“I’d be starting this January.”

“Oh,” Lestrade looked at his hands. Sherlock grabbed his hand in reassurance, “It’s only an hour by train.”

“Yeah but... it’s a minute’s walk up the stairs,” Lestrade said sheepishly.

“You wanted me to do something; this is _something_.”

“Isn’t there _something_ closer?”

Sherlock kissed the back of Greg’s hand, “I’m afraid not.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lied.

“We’ll just have to make it work then.”

Sherlock stood and drew him into a sideways hug. He kissed Lestrade’s temple. Lestrade grinned but he had tears in his eyes, threatening to spill out. Sherlock clutched on to his hand tightly.

“We’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

 

* * *

Two years passed in a blink of an eye for Greg. Everything seemed to happen at once, Sherlock left that January, he passed his OSPRE with flying colours in March, and in April he was allotted the post in the CID. Sherlock spoke little of school while Greg felt himself prattle on about his training programme.

He spent his days off in Oxford visiting Sherlock in his tiny accommodations. Sherlock shared the room with a boy he knew back at Harrow. The guy was a little on the chubby side with pointy ears, he seemed skittish, and didn’t stick around for long.

Sherlock dominated most of the small room with his own lab equipment. He’d made a makeshift ventilation system that was drilled into the screen of the window. He had a chalk-board in his room that was covered with equations and reaction mechanisms, none of which Lestrade understood. They usually spent their time together snogging on Sherlock’s bottom bunk.

When Sherlock would get excited they’d usually stick to frottage with such a small bed. They’d tried sex once in the room and ended up putting a hole in the wall with Greg’s forehead.

Sherlock arrived on Friday nights to spend the weekend at Baker Street. Greg would come home late Friday night, early Saturday morning, to find Sherlock asleep on the sofa, not wanting to sleep in the bed alone. Some nights Greg just collapsed on the sofa with him.

After he’d graduated from the national Initial Crime Investigators’ Development Programme and was given the title of Detective Constable his schedule became more predictable. He started having Thursdays off consistently and was able to plan out his visits to Oxford.

He started taking Sherlock out on dates. He noticed how much weight Sherlock had lost and the tired look in his eyes.

“How’s uni?” Greg asked over dinner. He watched fondly as Sherlock started mutilating his slice of pizza, tearing off the cheese, wiping the sauce off on his plate, “Why don’t you just order it plain?” Greg laughed as Sherlock took a bite.

“I still want the lingering taste, without all the excess.”

“Could use a bit of excess, you’re thin as a rail,” Greg tore into his pizza.

“Your hair is starting grey,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

Greg put his pizza down before he could take a bite, “Yeah,” he said, blushing as he ran his hand through his hair, “Stress.”

“Epigenetics,” Sherlock corrected.

“Feel old,” Greg sighed.

“Funny, I don’t.”

“Oh, piss off,” Greg laughed throwing a packet of sugar at him. Sherlock chuckled, “No congratulations on me making DC?”

“It’s about time,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Oi, I worked real hard to get where I am.”

“Any cases?” Sherlock scooted forward in his chair.

“None that’d you’d be interested in.”

“Try me,” Sherlock said, looking at him intently.

“Woman walks into a bar-“

“Is this the start of a joke?”

“Lemme finish,” Greg laughed, “She walks into a bar, sees this guy eying her, steps outside to have a smoke, guy comes out, starts giving her the routine check-up. ‘Hey can I have your digits?’ ‘What’ya doin later?’.”

“And he rapes her,” Sherlock leans back and lets out a sigh.

“No,” Greg said with a laugh, “Didn’t lemme finish.”

“He assaults the woman.”

“Christ, Sherlock, would I be telling you if it was that straight forward?”

“Yes.”

Greg rolled his eyes, “The guy goes n pulls out a finger; only it isn’t his own,” Sherlock sat forward in his seat once more, “It’s this dismembered bloody thing, hardly resembled a finger at all at this point. Fresh too, still warm n’ everything, felt like body temperature,” Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand to conceal his smile, “Gives it to the lady, says ‘ere have it I’ve got nine more at home’. Runs off.”

Sherlock fought back a grin, “Now that _is_ interesting.”

“She comes into the station, pulls it out of this baggie, and tells us the story, starts show-“

“What bar?”

“The Abbey, think it was.”

“And the finger was still warm when you inspected it?”

“Yeah...” Greg said looking at Sherlock with confusion.

“Interesting. Did she come by cab?”

“Dunno.”

“What did she say the man looked like?”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, bout six foo-“

“She was inadvertently describing you. She’s lying, given her story the finger would have been at ambient temperature by the time it was delivered to the police regardless of how fresh it was when the ‘man’ delivered it to her. She came straight from the scene of the crime to put you off her scent.”

“I well... it’s a possibility. Yeah...” Greg thought to himself. The woman did seem a bit off, she wasn’t very shaken up by the affair and she took it to the station instead of phoning the police from the bar. She didn’t exactly smell like she’d come from a bar either, her leather jacket would have trapped the smell of hard liquor and cigarette smoke.

Her clothes were a bit too clean pressed for the time of day. She’d recently changed her outfit. The site of the murder had to be nearby if the finger was still warm.

“Lestrade,” Greg snapped out of his daydream.

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to use my phone?”

Greg nodded. He stepped outside to phone DI Hopkins. He brought to his attention the temperature of the finger, the holes in the woman’s story, her dress, and how she was describing him when she was asked to describe the perpetrator. Hopkins was a bit speechless but said they’d definitely look into it.

Sherlock stepped outside.

“Did you pay?” Greg asked looking inside.

“Yes.”

“Sherlock, I said it was my treat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took Greg’s hand in his, “What did the Detective Inspector say?”

“He said he’d look into it,” Greg looked at Sherlock who cocked an eyebrow, “And he’s not one to yank my dick, he’s really keen on looking into it.”

“Well, I’m glad he doesn’t yank your dick,” Sherlock said with a snort.

“Metaphorically,” Greg laughed.

They returned to Sherlock’s accommodations so Sherlock could be the one to yank Greg’s dick. Greg lay on top of Sherlock thrusting into his hand, rubbing up against Sherlock’s firm prick, and giving into the sensation. He started really getting into it and grunted against Sherlock’s lips. He could feel Sherlock smiling against his lips. Greg wiped the sweat off his brow.

“What’s so funny?” He asked, looking down at Sherlock as he continued rubbing against him.

“Nothing,” Sherlock laughed.

“Yeah?” Greg continued thrusting forward, making the bed sway with every move.

“Just, you were so preoccupied with shoving your tongue down my throat when we came in, you didn’t notice my roommate was asleep above us.”

Greg’s stomach dropped, “Shit, you serious?”

Sherlock snickered.

“Oh shit, I am so sorry, kid,” Greg said as he reached up and felt the sinking in the mattress where Sherlock’s roommate was laying.

“It’s alright,” The boy answered with a squeak and a gulp from the top bunk.

Greg snorted a laugh and fell into Sherlock’s shoulder, “Bastard. You could have told me.”

“He _was_ asleep when you started,” Sherlock said with a laugh.

Greg shook his head and pressed a kiss to his lips. Sherlock worked his fist hard, pumping Greg’s cock, and Greg bit down on his own fist until he came with a soft grunt. Sherlock refrained from achieving his own orgasm and Greg glared at him the dark, “Bastard,” He whispered into Sherlock’s ear as he nibbled on his earlobe.

He fell asleep on top of Sherlock, with his bare ass perfectly exposed to the air. He woke up when he felt Sherlock’s roommate stir and start climbing down the ladder in the morning. He avoided eye contact with Greg as he escaped the room with an armful of clothes.

Greg pressed up and groaned.

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked cracking one eye open.

“Mattress is a bit lumpy,” Greg remarked. Sherlock smirked and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.

Greg sat up and started to stretch, “Mm, I’ve gotta catch the 8.40 train. You coming tonight?”

“I thought I’d come with you on the train.”

“Don’t you have class?” Lestrade asked with a yawn.

“I could miss.”

“Stay, I have work anyway. I’ll see you tonight and I have Sunday off,” Greg said. Sherlock let out a groan of discontent. “It’s a few hours, I won’t even be home.”

“Fine,” Sherlock rolled over and ignored him as he packed to leave.

“You are going to class though, right?” Greg asked. Sherlock shrugged in response. “You’re going to school to ‘go to school’.” He pulled on his pants and shimmied into his trousers, “Your brother pays good money for... Sherlock,” Sherlock pulled the pillow over his head. Greg rolled his eyes and pulled on his shoes. He walked over and grabbed the pillow off Sherlock’s head, “I’m off,” He gave him a kiss on the temple, “I’ll see you later, I love... woo. Later,” he said trying to recover, he turned on his heels abruptly, pulled open the door, and rushed out.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock didn’t see the point of attending lectures. Not when he could curl up with a good book and learn everything on his own. His professors were starting to mind. Apparently attendance wasn’t as optional as they made it sound.

“You are no longer children, you are at the university level, and it is no long mandatory that you come to... Excuse me young man, where are you going?” his chemistry professor asked as Sherlock stood up.

“I’m leaving, if my presence isn’t required,” Sherlock held up the syllabus, “I have the examination dates, I will see you then.”

“If you actually believe you can pass without attending lecture, then you’re free to leave,” so Sherlock left and didn’t return until the first exam. He not only achieved the highest score on the test, he also pointed out a fundamental error in one of the exam’s questions. The professor wasn’t impressed. He tried moving the dates of the next two exams but Sherlock showed up, right on time, and eager to show off.

The labs and practicals were dreadful; there were far too many students all vying for limited lab equipment. Sherlock just wanted to get in and get done. His technique was flawless, the purity of his distillate was near one-hundred percent, and he was able to take accurate measurements with the most archaic of laboratory equipment. Nobody was willing to share his laminar flow hood in fear he would snap at them. When he was in the zone he was vicious. He had an unrivalled concentration for the task at hand. If his apparatus fluctuated even slightly he had to be at the ready to remedy the situation or risk losing several hours of work.

Others just stood around idly chatting away while Sherlock stared intently at his round bottomed flask, watching it boil, noting any colour change. His yield was unparallel, other students were achieving a maximum of ten or twenty percent if they were lucky; Sherlock consistently managed eighty percent. 

His advisor took notice of his name being constantly brought up in the break room. He tracked Sherlock down and set aside an appointment before dinner one evening.

“I hear you haven’t been attending chemistry lecture,” his advisor Dr Gladstone looked at him, seemingly taking him apart with his gaze.

“I fail to see the point of attending.”

“Do you believe you can pass the final examination for the course?”

“Yes.”

“You say it with such confidence,” he chuckled, “With an attitude like that, most men in the field will want to strike you down, knock you down a few pegs,” Sherlock shifted slightly but kept his head held high, “If you’re so certain, why don’t you take it right now?” Dr Gladstone withdrew an exam packet, “You have fifty minutes.”

Sherlock grabbed the packet and looked it over. He held his hand out for a pen. His advisor looked on with a smile. Sherlock started scribbling away. He reached the end of the test in ten minutes and handed it back.

“I thought so,” his advisor smiled and started shaking his head. He pulled out the key and started grading the exam, “It’s a perfect score,” Sherlock shrugged it off as nothing, “Mr Holmes, this is the postgraduate final examination,” he laughed, “What are you doing _here_?” his advisor scrubbed at his lips trying to wipe away the smile on his face, “Your work is outstanding but your commitment to higher education is... nonexistent,” he looked at the exam packet once more, “You will leave here with near failing marks and no one will know your true genius.”

Dr Gladstone spun around in his chair and pulled out Sherlock’s file. He turned and let it drop on the desk with a loud smack. “Your knowledge in chemistry is profound, that is certain, but your work in mathematics and physics is deplorable at best. You grasp the major concepts of biology yet fail to work them out systematically. Spectacularly ignorant is the term we use around here to describe Mr Sherlock Holmes. Is this the legacy you wish to leave behind?”

“I don’t wish to leave behind any legacy,” Sherlock said, sitting up straight in his chair. His adviser sat forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

“You could be one of Univ’s best if you put in the effort and learned the information presented to you.”

“It is the greatest fallacy of man that his mind is limitless. That it can be stretched endlessly to comprehend everything life has to offer. When, in fact, all the excess information taken in clutters the mind, making it near impossible to access what truly matters,” Sherlock sat on the edge of his seat, “While the everyday man fills his mind with useless rubbish, I reserve the space for only what is important.”

“But you fail to understand the simplest of things! Gravity, Mr Holmes?”

“Unh, I don’t _need_ to understand gravity to know it exists. What goes up must come down, that’s all I care about.”

“It is _fundamental_. You are choosing to be ignorant!”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Sherlock said with a wry grin. He was dismissed promptly; his adviser’s cheerful attitude had been worn thin.

Sherlock returned to his accommodations just as his roommate was returning from dinner. Sebastian Wilkes couldn’t understand how Sherlock had made it to Oxford without completing his A-levels.

He was terrified Sherlock would reveal his secret and mostly kept his mouth shut. Sherlock never brought it up, but there was an air of discomfort. Sherlock appeared completely unfazed by Sebastian’s existence while Sebastian was a nervous wreck.

Sherlock had silently forgiven him for being a pervert in his younger years, yet he still sought to traumatize Sebastian at every turn. Sherlock secretly enjoyed the thrill of being caught with Lestrade in the throes of heated mutual masturbation. He’d often set it up so Sebastian would accidentally walk in on them.

Inadvertently, Lestrade was becoming wary of having sex in the room and kept mostly dressed in case they had to cover up quickly. Lestrade didn’t enjoy being caught, the embarrassed look on Sebastian’s face, and the adrenaline surge that came on when the door opened suddenly.

Sherlock wanted Sebastian to see them together, so he knew what he was missing out on. He had no desire to get back together with Sebastian, he was nowhere near as attractive as Lestrade, and he would turn on Sherlock if given the chance. It was difficult to imagine why Sherlock was ever attracted to Sebastian in the first place. The boy had caused nothing but torment for him.

Sherlock looked Sebastian over, there was a spot of ketchup in the corner of his mouth, his nails were trimmed far too short, the bottom button on his shirt was undone revealing a small glimpse of his pot belly, and his shirt was tucked in haphazardly. Sherlock cocked one eyebrow.

“Turned down again, were we? Hm, basil and cardamom overtones... Calvin Klein. You would have better luck attracting a man if you wrote G-A-Y on your forehead and paraded around in ass-less chaps,” Sherlock turned the key and opened the door, “I told you Matthews wasn’t interested.”

Sebastian stepped inside, pulled off his jacket and shoes, and climbed on to the top bunk, “No, you didn’t, actually.”

“Oh,” Sherlock thought a moment, “Well he isn’t.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Sebastian let out a sigh.

“It would be far easier if you would come out of the closet.”

“And tell my father what?” Sebastian sat up in bed.

“That you’re a homosexual.”

Sebastian laid back down, “Easy for you to say.”

“That will be twenty pounds.”

“Twenty?” Sebastian shot back up, “I’m not paying you for your shit advice!”

“You asked if he was gay, I found out for you, where’s my money?”

“In my suit jacket. Honestly, you have to be the worst consultant in the world,” Sebastian said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“In the future you should word your questions more carefully.”

“You could have _deduced_ that I fancied him. That is what you _do,_ ” Sebastian groaned and laid down once more.

Sherlock dug through Sebastian’s suit jacket on the back of his chair. He pulled out a twenty and shoved it in his pocket, “Any calls?”

“One, from your brother.”

“And?” Sherlock asked, looking over the notepad next to the phone.

“Told him what you told me to say: you died in a firey car crash, it was the other driver’s fault, and the memorial will be held this Wednesday.”

“I don’t know why you would ever consider going into accounting when you have such a promising career as a secretary.”

“I live to serve,” Sebastian grumbled as he fixed his pillow under his head. Sherlock ripped the memo off the pad.

“I’ll need to borrow the car.”

“It’s my car!” Sebastian said, sitting up and turning to jump off the bed. Sherlock reached for the keys.

“I’ll have it back by Saturday.”

“It’s Monday!” Sebastian shouted. Sherlock grabbed his overcoat and dashed out of the room, “Sherlock!” Sebastian shouted as he chased him down the hall. Sherlock escaped into the night and Sebastian stood outside cursing into the wind.

 

* * *

Greg broke into a cold sweat standing in the room with DI Hopkins. His blood had turned to ice and his palms began to sweat.

“This... this isn’t... this cannot be,” Greg stammered looking over the walls.

_GET OUT_

The message was written in fresh blood across the wall of the hidden nursery. The message should have been disturbing enough but what was sending Greg into a panic was the change in the decor. The mural of the children skipping into the woods was gone, replaced with Jack and Jill leading a toy parade; it appeared to be painted by the same artist. It was impossible.

Joseph had found the room exploring one day and kept it a secret from his mother and sister for a full month before Mary found out. Both children were using it as a secret hide-out for nearly two years.

That day, Trisha had heard screaming from upstairs but couldn’t find her children. She phoned the police just as they emerged from the wardrobe.

Earlier, when Greg pulled up to the house with DI Hopkins he felt a rush of terror that something unthinkable had happened to his sister and her children.

“I can’t... I can’t go in there. It’s my sister’s house,” he told DI Hopkins. He felt panic rise in his chest and he prepared for the worst. He waited for further instructions in the car. Hopkins entered the scene to begin the investigation. He returned shortly and Greg rolled down the window.

“Come inside,” he said, opening the door for him. Greg breathed a huge sigh of relief when he saw Trish and the kids sitting on the sofa, shaken up, but not harmed. They climbed the stairs and went straight to his gran’s former room. Greg’s stomach sunk. He’d all but forgotten about the hidden rooms. It was astonishing his sister hadn’t discovered them by then.

He stepped through the wardrobe and entered the room where four police officers were standing shining their torches on the wall. Greg looked around and saw the beds were missing, there were brand new toys on the floor, along with a tray of sweets, half eaten. He felt his chest tighten.

What concerned him most was the change in the wall coverings. Jack was wearing a crown and playing the flute, leading a string of toys, while Jill marched behind. Jill had the same demonic smile as Hansel and Gretel, yet she didn’t seem to have eyelids. Her gaze followed Greg across the room.

DI Hopkins pulled him aside, “You were the last resident of this house, is that correct?”

Greg nodded in response as he stared at the children on the wall. He started seeing a striking resemblance between them and Mary and Joseph. They had bright blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Greg felt a lump grow in his throat.

“Did you know this room existed?” Hopkins asked.

“Yes,” he choked out.

“Would you be willing to come back to the station for questioning?” Greg looked at him but couldn’t register what he was saying, “Greg?” he placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder.

“Yes, of course,” he said, shaking his head clear. He ran a hand over his face, “This... this isn’t... this cannot be.”

“What can’t be?”

“The walls,” he said with a gulp, “They’ve changed.”

“Here, let’s get some fresh air,” DI Hopkins led him outside into the hall. Greg started taking deep breaths. Then his eyes went wide in panic. He lunged at the other wall in the hallway.

“Where is it?” he shouted, searching the wall.

“Where’s what?”

“The door! The other door! There used to be a door here,” Greg started knocking on the wall.

“Greg, calm down.”

“Ah-ha! See,” he started knocking on one side, “This side’s solid. Now listen,” he knocked where the door used to be, “Hollow.”

“Sgt Donovan!” DI Hopkins shouted. Greg hadn’t even noticed her until then. She walked over with a torch, “I need you to run down to the nearest station; get a battering ram.”

“Yes sir,” She said, leaving in a hurry.

“Greg, know that anything you say can and will be held against you in court, your cooperation will be greatly appreciated but you cannot be involved in this investigation.”

“You... you don’t believe I’m going to be a suspect, do you?”

DI Hopkins looked at the ground, “I can’t say,” he said biting his lower lip. Greg took in a startled breath, “Now, now. We don’t have the evidence to say anything at this point and as long as you cooperate... you didn’t do this, did you?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he reassured him, “Right now, it’s just a conflict of interest, her being your sister.”

“Right,” Greg nodded.

“While we wait, I’m going to start questioning the witnesses. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to stay up here.”

“Fine,” Greg said with a sigh. He didn’t want to be charged with interfering with the investigation given the circumstances. He was starting to regret not telling Trish about the hidden rooms. He had been so selfish. She was going to find out one way or another but he never expected it would be like this.

Forensics showed up in their blue jumpsuits and masks. Two of the police officers left while the other two started guarding the hall. They set up portable lights in the room and Greg peered in to see what the room looked like fully illuminated. He wanted to be downstairs questioning his sister.

_Did you buy those toys? Where did they come from? How did the children get sweets? What did they see? Who’s been in that room? Have they heard any strange noises coming from the room?_

Then a terrible thought came to mind.

_What if the sweets are poisoned?_

“The tray! The tray of sweets, my sister would never allow the kids to have those and they're half eaten.”

A rat faced man gave him a look.

“And?”

“Jesus Christ! Pull out a test strip or summat! Do your bloody job!” Greg shouted as one of the officers pulled him back.

“We’ll take a sample back to the lab,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Those kids downstairs can’t wait for you to ‘take it to the lab’.”

“Are you saying they’ve been poisoned?”

“Oh come on, a tray of sweets magically appears in a room, it’s only a logical assumption they've been tampered with,” Greg said, annoyed with the man’s ignorance. The man walked over to his case to withdraw strips of paper and a set of pipettes. He scraped some frosting off on to the strips of paper and laid them out on the lid of his case. He started squeezing drops on to each; he stopped when one formed a yellow precipitate.

“Lead,” he said, taking a picture with his Polaroid, “We’ll need to do further testing to determine the concentration, but the children should be taken in, immediately.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, rubbing his forehead in worry. One of the officers left to inform DI Hopkins of the results. Greg slid to take a seat on the floor. He pressed his forehead against his knees. He wanted to wake up and end this terrible nightmare.

Donovan returned with the battering ram and Hopkins ascended the stairs to watch as the police officers burst down the concealed door. The door splintered and finally gave in to reveal the clown room. There was an overwhelming stench of lemongrass.

They started illuminating the room and mice scattered in every direction, hundreds of them. Donovan shrieked and clung on to Greg’s shoulder. Greg watched as the rodents scurried past his feet and started flooding the hallway.

“Oh... dear God,” Hopkins said turning his torch on the corner of the room illuminating a pile of human remains, picked clean from the mice. There were thousands of tiny teeth marks all over the skeletal remains. The floor was coated in mouse droppings and half-eaten mice. “They must have run out of food a while ago, they’ve turned to cannibalism,” Hopkins looked over the body, “It’s going to be difficult to date,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, don’t know how people will take to you bringing a skeleton into a restaurant,” Greg said without thinking it through. Hopkins blinked at him, “You know... on a date...” Sally snickered behind him.

“Now’s not the time for jokes. Get forensics in here,” he said, stepping out of the room.

“Um sir,” One of the police officers said standing in the middle of the room. They all looked up to where the officer was shining his torch. There was a massive smiley face painted in blood on the ceiling looking down on all of them. DI Hopkins swallowed hard.

They all jolted when a voice came behind them. Greg turned and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here? This is a police investigation!” Greg shouted.

“I’ve come to clear your name,” Sherlock said as if it was obvious.

“Wait, who’s the kid?” Hopkins asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said as he strolled into the nursery.

“You can’t go in there! It’s a crime scene!” Donovan shouted.

“I don’t believe it’s possible to destroy any more evidence than forensics already has. Look at this, they’ve disturbed the dust,” he scoffed, “I can tell you ten things about the killer that you would have taken weeks to figure out on your own, would you like to hear them?” Sherlock asked looking towards the officers, “Know that I have an airtight alibi and I couldn’t have possibly committed the crime, so don’t even ask. Give me a moment,” Sherlock started looking the room over from top to bottom, “First of all the killer is left handed. See how he’s smeared the blood on the bottom, joining the letters? Two, the man is five foot eight going by the size of the letters, the positioning, and the size of his gait,” Sherlock looked at the floor, “He was wearing designer shoes with a smooth sole and a slight heel. The sweets were baked not purchased-“

“They were laced with lead,” Greg interrupted.

“Hm,” Sherlock grabbed one of the sweets and gave it a sniff. He gave it a small lick, “No.”

“What?” Greg asked aghast, “Did you seriously just lick that?”

“The children don’t exhibit any of the classic symptoms of chronic lead poisoning, save behavioural problems, but that’s the result of nurture not neurotoxins,” Sherlock looked over the cupcake, “It’s perfectly safe, forensics likely has a cross-contaminated kit going from the way the examiner dipped the tip of the pipette into the frosting,”  Sherlock said looking over the testing strips, “What number am I on?”

“Four,” Greg said looking over DI Hopkin’s notes.

“Five if you include the bit about the lead,” Sherlock said looking towards the ceiling. He smirked, “There’s his way of entry.” Sherlock said pointing to a vent in the corner of the room, “Notice the slight draft? How could there be a draft if there are no windows? The vent opens to the outside. Watch,” Sherlock went over to a dial in the corner of the room and the lighting fixtures started to hiss, “The natural gas turns on; the ventilation shaft opens, allowing the excess gas to escape so it doesn’t build up in the house. An inefficient system but it prevents the house from going up in flames. The children must have turned it on while they were exploring the room and forgot to turn it off.” Sherlock turned off the gas. “The ventilation shaft is being pried open, allowing for round the clock access, when the children are at school or while they’re sleeping...” Sherlock paused. “He has an accomplice,” Sherlock led the team into the other room. He looked over the remains, “Male, mid twenties, no hair, missing three teeth...” Sherlock stood blinking.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked looking Sherlock over, his eyes had softened and his speech had slowed down.

“He was stripped naked, beaten within an inch of his life, and was left to die... the citronella is meant to cover the smell of decay. He died shortly before Christmas of 1994,” Sherlock turned to Greg, “What number am I on?”

“Nine, I think,” Greg said looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

“It’s Raz.”


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock sat on the sofa with Lestrade’s head in his lap, idly stroking his hair, while the match played in the background.

“I can’t even tell you how worried I was,” Lestrade said looking up at Sherlock.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, running his hand along the stubble on Lestrade’s cheek, “You’re no longer a suspect.”

Lestrade sat up and looked at Sherlock incredulously, “I was worried about Trish and the kids, not my own skin,” he furrowed his brows and looked Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock turned his head.

“Oh.”

“Oh’s right. I mean, I was terrified I was going to walk in there and find one of them...” Lestrade sucked in a breath, “I’m just glad they’re safe.”

“And with Barbara.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade gritted his teeth, “It would have made no difference here or there. They’re safe and that’s all that matters.”

“You should be thanking me,” Sherlock said, shifting to stretch out his arm on the back of the sofa.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned.

“I can think of about six different ways you could be thanking me. Half of which involve sucking me off. Granted the other half also involve oral sex; only with a slight change in venue.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and let out a slow breath, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“No,” Lestrade poked a finger into Sherlock's chest, “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re being a massive dick instead of just a huge dick, there’s something seriously wrong. Now spill.”

A heavy silence fell upon them as Sherlock deliberated his next move, “I’m not going back to Oxford.”

“Why not?” Lestrade shifted forward on the sofa, “The term is almost up.”

“I have no desire to continue living there.”

“This isn’t about me, is it?” Lestrade looked at him sorrowfully, “I think Oxford has been great for us,” Sherlock went to stand and Lestrade grabbed his hand, “We actually make time for each other and I know taking the train back and forth is a pain, but you’ll have your degree soon enough.”

“I can’t,” Sherlock said, shaking his hand off.

Mycroft had lied to him; he said Lestrade would be safe. He wasn’t leaving his side until the threat was dissolved.

“Why are you doing this?” Lestrade asked, practically pleaded for an answer, “You sabotage yourself, constantly.”

“This isn’t a form of self-sabotage. In time you’ll see there’s a method to my madness.”

“Yeah... right bout now all I’m seeing is the madness,” Lestrade let out a sigh, “So I’m just supposed to be okay with this?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade stood up and walked over, “You drive me insane, you know that right?”

“It isn’t that long of a drive.”

Lestrade pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s, “You are such a prick,” Sherlock grabbed his hand and placed it firmly against the front of his trousers. Lestrade started groping him, “Are you ever going to finish what you start?”

“Perhaps. Are you ever going to _thank_ me?”

Lestrade chuckled and pressed a kiss to his lips, “You should be thanking me, all the hell you’ve put me through.”

Sherlock ran his thumbs over Lestrade’s lips, “I’ll let you thank me to completion.”

“I have an idea,” Lestrade said sliding his hands down the backside of Sherlock’s trousers and under his pants, “Let’s unwind, have a beer, relax...“ He swayed in a sort of sensual slow dance.

“You want to watch the stupid game,” Sherlock said, pulling away.

“It’s Liverpool,” He said as if that made any difference, “They were in the FA cup last year and they’re in round four... please.” He begged, “It’d take my mind off things.”

“Fine, I have work to do anyhow.”

“Work?”

“I’m building a website.”

“Please tell me it isn’t porn.”

“It isn’t _porn,_ ” Sherlock sneered, “I’m starting a business,” he said with an air of confidence.

“Please tell me-“

“It isn’t prostitution!” Sherlock shouted, storming out the door and up the stairs to the new computer room.

 

 

* * *

Greg grabbed three beers from the fridge and sat down on the sofa, trying to relax as much as possible. The image of the ghostly wall paper and the words on the wall kept flashing in his mind. He drank until the thought of James Moriarty or Sebastian Moran being in the same house as his niece and nephew died away.

He had a good buzz after three beers. He started on his fourth when Sherlock returned downstairs, “How’s the site?”

“We’ll see.”

“Beer?”

“Yes... it is,” Sherlock said, looking over the offering.

“Twit. You want one?”

Sherlock walked over and grabbed the bottle out of Greg’s hand. He gave it a whiff and handed it back, “Smells.”

“Course it smells, it’s beer. It’s fermented,” Greg grabbed his hand and pulled him on to his lap, “Watch the match.”

“I’d rather not.”

Greg tried to give Sherlock a kiss but he pulled away, “What?”

“You reek.”

“Just give us a kiss, n’ I’ll leave you be,” Greg wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s torso and pulled him back. Sherlock rested his head against Greg’s shoulder and let out a sigh, “How about I make you a snakebite?”

Sherlock shrugged and Greg let him off his lap.

He mixed a pint for Sherlock and a pint for himself. He walked over to Sherlock and handed him his drink. Sherlock looked it over questioningly. He took a tentative sip. He started drinking it like water.

“Whoa,” Greg laughed, “Take it easy.”

Greg nursed his drink and sat back to watch the match. Sherlock started babbling about the science of deduction as he paced in front of the television set.

“That’s nice Sherlock,” Greg said, trying to peer around him to see the match.

“I observe everything. From what I observe, I can deduce anything. I can examine the effect and determine the cause with near a hundred percent accuracy, simply by examining that which deviates from the mean.”

“Sherlock, take a seat,” Greg said pulling him away, “You’re blocking the set.”

“You once rode horses if I’m not mistaken,” Sherlock said and Greg gave him a queried look, “I can tell from the way your thighs never tire out when we’re-“

“Alright, that’s lovely,” he pulled Sherlock aside and sat him down next to him.

“Also, I know you once played the trumpet although you have long since rid of it.”

“Cornet.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock cursed, “There’s always something,” He fell forward onto Greg’s lap, squirming to roll over onto his back. “Well the next part’s easy, putting all the pieces together. The army kitbag, the strong thighs, your pursed lips and practiced fingertips. You were in the Army’s mounted cavalry.”

“Yeah and you know what I can deduce bout you right now?” Greg asked looking down at Sherlock who was struggling to keep his hands to himself, running his fingers along Greg’s chin, “You’re piss drunk.”

“Brilliant deduction, Lestrade.”

“Oi, did you drink my drink?” Greg leaned forward to pick up his empty glass. Sherlock sat up suddenly.

“Lie to me.”

“You’re mad,” Greg laughed. Sherlock straddled him and pressed their foreheads together. Sherlock rolled his hips forward and Greg reached out to stop him. Sherlock’s hips kept canting in desperation, “Don’t,” Greg said with a gulp.

“Why? You know you want to.”

“It’s not what I want, Sherlock. You’re drunk. It isn’t right.”

Sherlock kept rubbing against Greg’s jeans, making him start to strain.

“Stop,” Greg begged breathlessly.

“Just watch the match,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. Greg looked past Sherlock at the telly. Sherlock ran his tongue up Greg’s throat and to his ear lobe.

“Don’t... stop,” Greg panted.

“I’ve been so naughty,” Sherlock said in a deep sensual voice as he ran his hands across Greg’s cheeks and back to his ears, “I need to be punished,” Sherlock bit Greg’s bottom lip.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re killing me,” Greg’s hands ventured to Sherlock’s tight abs and started stroking upward towards his chest. Sherlock began viciously snogging him. The back of Greg’s mind kept reminding him that this was a form of rape. Sherlock’s kiss was sloppy, wet, and tasted strongly of cider.

Sherlock’s wanton moans sent a shiver down Greg’s spine and caused his prick to swell. Greg found himself undoing Sherlock’s zip and sliding his trousers down his hips. Sherlock slid them off the rest of the way and left his trousers in a pile on the floor.

Greg took in a deep breath before clutching on to Sherlock’s hips and guiding him across the bulge in his jeans. Greg closed his eyes and let his head hit the back of the sofa. If this was all there would be, he would be perfectly fine with it, but Sherlock was obviously desperate for more. Sherlock began undoing Greg’s zip and fondling him through his pants.

Sherlock dismounted him and kneeled in between his legs. He helped Greg slide his jeans and pants past his hips. Greg felt as if all his dreams had come true. He focused his attention on the match while Sherlock started sucking him off. He could hardly follow the game at all, the footballer’s names all became mismatched and mashed together. Sherlock slid down his own pants and started stroking himself.

Just as Greg started really enjoying himself, Sherlock stood, turned, and seated himself on Greg’s lap, “Whoa, wait,” Greg grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and tried pushing him away but his will was weak. Sherlock lined Greg’s cock up and started guiding it in. Greg let out a loud moan.

Sherlock seated himself fully and fell back, pressing his back against Greg’s chest. He lay his head on Greg’s shoulder and winced in pain.

“Sherlock,” Greg said worriedly. Sherlock guided Greg’s hand to his needy erection. Greg started stroking him softly and Sherlock began wriggling and making Greg’s brain go numb. He started whispering deliciously naughty things into Greg’s ear. Greg began stroking him with earnest.

Sherlock kept expressing his need to be punished, how he was made for Greg’s cock, and every time he said, ‘daddy’ Greg inadvertently bucked up harder. The way Sherlock was turning him on made him feel like an absolute pervert.

Sherlock started begging for release and Greg was happy to oblige. Sherlock tensed and his toes dug into Greg’s shins. Sherlock came in three separate bursts and his thighs started to tremble.

Greg hit his stride. He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock’s torso and pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s shoulder blades. His white hot release took every pain and ounce of stress away to a far off place.

He let go and Sherlock pulled him out and stumbled away. Greg fell back against the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. He saw a stream of spunk dribble down Sherlock’s leg and was instantly hit with a tremendous guilt.

Sherlock covered his mouth and clenched his eyes shut. He started sobbing uncontrollably and Greg went into shock. He remained paralysed on the couch, unsure of what had just happened.

“Sherlock,” he said with an intense amount of worry. He stood and gathered his jeans, hiking them up his hips. He walked over to Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean... are you hurt?” Sherlock shook his head. He threw his arms around Greg and started crying into his shoulder. Greg held him close, sobering up rapidly.

He pushed Sherlock away by his shoulders to get a better look at him, “Are you okay?” he asked, searching Sherlock’s eyes.

“No,” Sherlock’s jaw quivered as tears cascaded down his cheeks. Greg wiped his tears away gently.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Sherlock said pathetically. He sunk his head into Greg’s shoulder once more. Greg patted his back reassuringly and softly swayed back and forth.

He could sense Sherlock beginning to fade and walked him to the bedroom. He settled Sherlock in bed, tucking him in for the night. Just as he was about to leave, Sherlock grabbed his hand.

“I... I think, I might... love,” Sherlock said before dozing off. Greg held his hand firmly. He felt a rush of fear and hope consume him. He wasn’t sure what to think about Sherlock’s drunken sentiment.

Greg sat in his chair in the sitting area, thinking to himself.

_I can’t just let him quit uni. He needs to realise his potential. He could achieve greatness. God, it’s all my fault._

Greg started scrubbing his face with his hands.

_I’m just getting in his way._

 

* * *

Sherlock woke up with a malicious hang-over and no Lestrade in his bed. He rolled right out of bed, seeking a remedy for the situation. He grabbed his bag off the dresser and started digging through it. He pulled out a bottle of aluminium hydroxide, magnesium hydroxide, and simethicone, as well as an alcohol wipe.

Sherlock stumbled towards the kitchen and found Lestrade frying breakfast.

“Hang over?” he asked sympathetically, “What’s all that?” Lestrade asked, looking at the bottles in Sherlock’s hands.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, too nauseous to give a proper response. He searched the fridge for distilled water, “DI water,” he growled impatiently.

“What?”

“God!” he shouted, slamming the bottles on the counter, “The dionized water, where is it?”

“I dunno,” Lestrade looked at him funny. Sherlock tore open the alcohol wipe and huffed it, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Easing my symptoms, now hand me the volumetric flask,” Lestrade stared at him blankly. Sherlock began to groan. “Glassware, second cabinet on the right, looks like a bong,” Lestrade opened the cabinet and pulled out a filter flask. Sherlock let out a high pitched whine, “It’s a graduated flask! How hard is it-“ Lestrade pulled out a round bottomed flask, “No, no!” Sherlock rubbed his forehead.

Sherlock gripped the countertop for support, “Top shelf, long skinny neck... That’s the one,” Sherlock grabbed the flask and filled it with five-hundred millilitres of tap water, “Baking soda,” He said holding out his hand. Lestrade opened the cabinet, pulled out a package, and handed it off to Sherlock, “This is baking powder...” Sherlock said, gritting his teeth.

“Same dif-“

“No, no it isn’t,” Sherlock hissed.

“What’s-“

Sherlock threw the package back at him, Lestrade caught it close to his chest, “Never mind,” Sherlock said with a growl. He pulled out a mixing bowl and teaspoon and started throwing the ingredients together in rough measurements. He suspended the mixture in the water and diluted it twice before adding peppermint extract.

He stored the concentrated solution for later use in a sealed graduated bottle and consumed the weakened concoction. He sipped slowly, feeling his stomach ease instantly.

“Could use some minor modifications,” Sherlock said definitively, placing the glass on the counter, “However I only have salicylate in tablet form and no micro ionizer,” On that note, Sherlock left to the bathroom to retrieve the Aspirin. Lestrade followed him and stood in the doorway, “Don’t you have a stove to attend to?” Sherlock asked looking over his face in the mirror.

“You should go back to Oxford.”

Sherlock pushed past him and returned to the kitchen and manned the frying pan. Lestrade took a seat at the table.

“I mean it,” Lestrade said with an unrelenting gaze.

“I know you _mean it,_ ” Sherlock said with a huff.

“Sherlock, you have the greatest potential of anyone I have ever met and you’re going to piss it away for what? Me?”

“It isn’t all about you,” Sherlock said as he transferred the bacon and eggs to a plate. He added pepper, pulled the toast out of the toaster, walked over to the table, and presented Lestrade with breakfast.

“Already ate.”

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock said looking for the tell-tale sign of yolk in the right corner of Lestrade’s lips that was conspicuously absent that morning.

“Don’t feel like eating.”

Sherlock grabbed his cup off the counter and placed it in front of Lestrade.

“What’s in this?” Lestrade asked tentatively.

“There’s no point in telling you if you don’t understand the pharmacology behind it. Now, drink.”

Lestrade let out a puff of air and took a few sips. He winced at the taste.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the table.

“Could use some schnapps,” Lestrade chuckled.

Sherlock snatched the glass out of his hand, “The purpose of the suspension is to cure the hang-over, not postpone it,” Sherlock downed the rest of the drink and slammed it on the table.

“Just think, you could find the cure to cancer in five years time. Why would you wanna give that up?”

“Everyone knows the cure to cancer is ample bed-rest and a cup of quality chicken broth.”

“I mean it!”

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders, “Why do you want me to leave?”

“I don’t!”

“Precisely,” Sherlock said giving him a small shove as he let go.

“But, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to.”

“Oh, piss off,” Sherlock said, walking off into the bedroom. He slammed the door and turned the lock. He withdrew his brier-root pipe from his bag. He searched in vain for the accompanying tin of tobacco. His thoughts turned to the potential culprits. Himself, Lestrade, or Sebastian Wilkes.

He tapped the pipe on to his palm and looked over the state of the residue. It hadn’t been cleaned properly since its last use, ruling out himself as a potential perpetrator. Lestrade wouldn’t have had the time to sneak away with it, so that left Sebastian. He had the motive and the opportunity to commit the crime.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted as he exited the bedroom, “Cigarettes.”

“What?”

“Where are the cigarettes?”

“I quit.”

“No you didn’t,” Sherlock scoffed. He took another look over Lestrade, “God damnit, man! How could you quit at a time like this?”

“Look, it isn’t my fault-“

“Visit my tobacconist,” Sherlock ripped a piece of paper off the notepad on the fridge, “I need twenty-five grams _each_ of the following, no substitutions,” He folded the paper and placed it in Lestrade’s breast pocket and gave it a small pat, “I’ll need cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg as well.”

“We have cin-“

“Yes, I know!” Sherlock shouted, “But it’s _pre-ground_. It lacks the essential flavour, the spice! And pre-ground is hardly pure. I need _pure_ cinnamon.”

“Fine. Jesus, calm down,” Lestrade said, rolling his eyes.

“You can buy the nutmeg already ground,” Sherlock said offhandedly.

“Why don’t you come with then? If you _know_ I’ll mess it up.”

“I’m most certain you won’t,” Sherlock strode over to his chair. He withdrew his violin from its case along with its bow and started into a quick C scale, followed by a light fine tuning, before sawing away, creating his own rendition of Verdi’s _Dies Irae._

“Sherlock, about last night-“

“Go!” Sherlock bellowed. Lestrade left in a huff, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock got so carried away in his performance, Mrs Hudson was forced to come knocking at his door, telling him his guest had arrived, “Send him up then, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said shortly.

“M’not your secretary!” she scolded.

“Yes and it’s a good thing too! I would never actually pay for such indolence.”

“You can invite him up yourself,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said changing his tone to a childish whine, “It’s my first client, have a heart.”

“Fine,” She conceded.

“Ah yes and would you set about fixing some tea, biscuits as well, if we have them.”

“Sherlock,” she chided. Sherlock pouted his lower lip and batted his eyes, “You’ll never learn.”

Sherlock sat in silent anticipation for his first client. A young man by the name of Barnes with a missing kid sister; the trail had been cold for ten years and police had given up on the case altogether. The young man arrived with empty hands and only a wallet in his pocket. Sherlock was severely disappointed.

“Nothing?” Sherlock asked.

“What?” the boy asked dumbly.

“You’re coming to me... with no evidence whatsoever? Save... the testimony of a child?”

“Child?”

“You were four when your sister disappeared, were you not? So yes, it would be the testimony of your biased infantile mind!” Sherlock stood abruptly, walked straight to the door, took up his coat, and left. The boy stood stunned. Sherlock returned to poke his head in, “Coming?”

“Oh... yes,” he said, rushing out the door after Sherlock.

 

* * *

Greg returned to an empty flat. He groaned and threw the bag of tobacco and spices on to the sofa and plopped down. He ran his hands over his face. He still couldn’t make up his mind about Sherlock and whether or not he should continue standing in his way.

_Maybe I could reason with his brother. He seems... reasonable._

Sherlock returned and threw his coat on the hook. He was bouncing with excitement.

“You seem... erm... happy,” Greg ventured.

“Ten years, _ten years_ , Lestrade. And I solved it in an afternoon.”

“Solved what?”

“A cold case! An ice cold case. Young girl, Michelle Barnes, went missing from her home in 1987, the police had given up completely on her search-“

“I’m sure they didn’t _completely_ give up.”

“A photograph of a two year old girl posted in the station is hardly any help!” Sherlock laughed.

“So you solved it then?”

“Got caught in the crawl space under the house, died of asphyxiation, was able to recover the body; case solved. All’s well that ends well.”

Greg’s jaw dropped, “That’s not exactly a happy ending,” he said in shock.

“It will put her parents’ minds at ease,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

“They must have been mortified!”

“It’s none of my concern,” Sherlock said with a huff, “Here,” he said, holding out a five twenty pound notes.

“What’s this?”

“Your share.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“No, not yet,” Sherlock said, turning on his heels.

“What d’you mean, ‘not yet’?”

“I’d like access to your case files.”

“Psh. Not happening,” Greg scoffed.

“Do you want to increase your solve rate? Impress your superiors? Keep me off the needle?”

“I’m not letting some _amateur_ detective at classified case files!”

“Amateur? Did I not just-“

“One case. You solved one case.”

“Fine, I can see you’re sceptical.”

“Yeah... a bit.”

“Then I’ll prove myself to you.”

“You don’t have to-“

“I insist.”

“Of course you do,” Greg sighed. He grabbed the bag and tossed it to Sherlock, “They didn’t have Red Virginia-“

“I said no substitutes!” Sherlock shouted in protest.

“So I went to another shop!” Greg finished with a shout.

“Oh,” Sherlock said with a look of surprise, “Good man,” he hummed. Sherlock set about opening tins, giving them a sniff, and taste testing.

“Hope it’s up to your majesty’s standards,” Greg said turning on the telly.

“It will suffice,” Sherlock shrugged. He began separating the tobaccos into three separate piles, measuring them carefully on the kitchen scale.

“Look, I wanted to talk about last night.”

“Talk,” Sherlock said nonchalantly as he took out the mortar and pestle. He measured out two parts cinnamon to one part cardamom to one part nutmeg before adding them to the mortar. He added a few drops of oil, crushed the ingredients with the pestle and then added another few drops, “Well?” He asked Greg who was intently watching him prepare the tobacco.

“What are you doing?”

“Aromatics... The oriental is far too sweet on its own and requires a counter-balance of harmonic spices. I’ve found that the rich taste of a Latakia pairs rather nicely with a quality oriental and both balance quite well with the undertones of a Virginia base,” Sherlock mixed a pile of tobacco with the oil and gently tossed it with his finger-tips, “It’s a vast improvement on the _Bohemian Scandal.”_

“I dunno... I kind of liked the scandalous Bohemian.”

Sherlock mixed the three piles together, grabbed his pipe, and began filling the bowl, “This will blow _Le Scandale Bohème_ out of the water,” Sherlock brought the pipe over to Greg and held it out for him.

“I quit.”

“Try it,” he held it up near Greg’s nose.

“Just a taste, alright?” Greg pinched the pipe in his finger tips while Sherlock lit the bowl. He let the smoke mull over his tongue before puffing it out. He relaxed into the sofa and hummed, “You’re right,” he continued puffing away, watching telly while Sherlock fluttered about the kitchen.

Greg felt deeply relaxed. Smoking cessation had made him irritable and tense. He reached the end of the bowl and felt a bit light-headed. He tapped the ashes out on to the ash-tray. Sherlock took the pipe away to be cleaned and handed Greg a newspaper.

Greg kicked up his feet and blinked at the tiny newsprint. He had a shocking moment of realization.

“Fuck!” He shouted. Sherlock jolted in surprise, “I’m old!”

“You’re not _that_ old.”

“I’m having a midlife crisis... right now, at this very instant,” he stood up and slammed the newspaper on the coffee table.

“Mid-life? You’re thirty-three!” Sherlock laughed.

“Yes and you’re young and exuberant and damnit look at me! I’ve got grey hairs, my sight’s going, and I just smoked a pipe, a tobacco pipe. I’m practically a gran-dad,” Greg ran his hands through his hair, “I’ve got one foot in the grave!” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “And you’re the man with the shovel!”

“Does this mean we have to go out on a date to make you feel young again?” Sherlock asked with a grimace.

“No,” Greg groaned. He sat back down and put his head in his hands, “If Sally sees me with another man, it will be the end of me,” he looked up at Sherlock, “I didn’t mean...”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“You do?”

“And if we’re going to be more than sexual partners, they musn’t know about our home life.”

“More than sexual partners?”

“I want to be your consultant.”

“What like... a consulting detective?”

Sherlock’s eyes brightened up at the moniker.


	29. Chapter 29

“Oh ho, this is nice, this is very nice,” Jim remarked looking around his new living quarters, “Off you pop,” he told the guard who left promptly, locking the door behind him.

Jim was thrilled with the new facility. He had his own toilet with a detached sink, a telly, a book shelf, an extra chair for when company came over...

_This is lovely, just lovely. Is that a down comforter?_

He fluffed the square pillow and fell on to his mattress that was on a _real_ bed frame.

“Oh, this is nice,” he said once more.

There was no dress code; he could lounge around in his sweats all day if he wanted to. He had a great view of the yard from his window. But most of all he loved the fact that he was isolated from the general population.

Jim reached up and placed his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and let out a content sigh. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“This is _perfect_ ,” he said with a purr.

Belmarsh was absolutely gorgeous to Jim. It was a newer build with all the amenities of home and plenty of breathing room.

Most of the men called it ‘Hellmarsh’. It was the last place on Earth they wanted to be sent. Bang-up was twenty-two hours a day and rarely were they ever let outside. It was heaven for Jim. It was far easier to get work done on the inside.

Most of his friends that he met in the cells of Old Bailey had been dispersed. None of them followed him to Brixton. They’d all moved on to bigger and better things while he remained stagnant.

Brixton was overcrowded and Jim hated sharing his oxygen with other inmates, so in the middle of the night, he repeatedly strangled one of his cell mates until the guards were forced to move him to another cell.

He’d been playing the prison game for two years and frankly he was bored with it. He tried sending Sherlock some letters but he never responded. So he started writing them to the elder Holmes instead.

He knew the letters were being intercepted somewhere along the line and he knew big brother loved his Sherly so dearly. Of course Mycroft never replied either but he knew he’d made a dent in him the moment he was transferred to Belmarsh.

His letters were never threatening, quite the contrary, he spilled his soul into those letters, pronouncing his undying love for Sherlock, detailing all the things he wanted to do to him when he got out.

He only had twelve years left on his sentence. Once they would decide he was clinically insane he’d only have another five. It was manageable but not ideal.

He wanted Sherlock so _desperately_. His name was always on his lips as he touched himself. Surprisingly his cellmates left him alone at Brixton, even after he came out. Apparently there was an old saying that seemed to float around, _“Never stick your dick in crazy.”_ Diseased ass-pussy was one thing, you can cure a disease; you can’t cure crazy.

There was a fine line between sociopath and psychopath and Jim liked to keep himself on the border, but sometimes it was just so hard. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty but it hurt watching the other men playing pool. He just wanted to crack a pool cue over their heads or smash their fingers with one of the pool balls.

“They won’t provide mirrors in fear I’ll shank people with a broken piece of glass, yet they’ll give me a pool cue and expect me not to hit anyone with it,” he confided in his therapist, “It’s just not fair.”

Jim looked up at his therapist and noted her grotesque weight problem, her flabby belly, varicose veins, greasy grey hair, shoulder length bob, the wart on her chin... chins. He cringed on the inside.

“You’re very pretty,” he said before he could stop himself.

_Ooh, she does not like flattery._

Jim smiled brightly.

“I can’t help it,” he said out loud with a laugh. He bit his bottom lip and nodded before he shook his head side to side, “You must think I’m crazy.”

The therapist, JoAnn it must have been, tapped her pen on her pad of paper. Jim’s face kept contorting into a smile. He had her, he had her good. She had her lips pressed into a thin line.

_I have you. I have you._

Jim kept repeating the mantra in his head and smiling.

_Tone it down, no padded cell, just get us out of here. This can’t be going any better. Come on JoAnn, you can do it old girl._

She wrote a check mark on her list and Jim near let out a scream.

_Psychopath! I’m a psychopath!_ _Yes, baby, check that list, God, give it to me JoAnn, you fat bitch. GIVE IT TO ME!_

Jim recognized the Hare Psychopathy Checklist that she was so desperately trying to conceal from him.

_Where will they send me? Somewhere nice I hope. Nothing with “Asylum” in the title. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’ve gone mad._

He told JoAnn his made up sob story about his parents beating him, locking him in a cupboard, feeding him dog food. It was the same story he told his teacher and the police all those years ago. They couldn’t find a mark on the boy and were baffled at how detailed his story was and how consistent it was.

The only thing little James couldn’t do as a child, was cry.

He tried his hardest to cry. He’d gag himself, throw a pillow over his head, beat himself mercilessly, but he couldn’t cry. That would make him so angry he’d shout and throw things.

He felt remorse, he really did. When he broke his recorder he felt terrible. His chest felt tight and he almost had tears in his eyes as he held half the instrument in his hand.

He clenched it tight and whined and growled at it but no tears would come.

“Why don’t they believe me?” he shouted at the broken toy flute. He’d spent five pounds on it, his own money. He was so distraught that he’d broken it in one of his tantrums.

“God damn it,” he said, discarding it on the floor. They were late for church and he couldn’t remember why he’d thrown the fit in the first place. It was likely something his mam had said.

He retreated down the stairs and informed his parents he was ready to go. He had been an only child for eight years and his mam and da were threatening to bring another child into the equation.

He was their ‘miracle’ and they were trying In Vitro fertilisation to have a second. Jim was sickened by the news.

He’d done his research and he knew the odds of them having multiples. His parents being devote Catholics would have to keep the litter.

And how they wanted a little brother or sister for little James. They spent loads of money trying to get pregnant and there was little Jim could do to sabotage them, save make up stories about their abuse.

He’d tell anyone that would listen.

“They make me watch them have sex,” he told his teacher, “They say it’s what God wants.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. He’d walked in on his parents having sex before. He was mortified. They tried sitting him down and talking to him about it but he didn’t want to hear it. That night he set fire to a patch of grass in the garden. He didn’t expect it to catch so quickly, but it hardly spread, and he was highly disappointed when it extinguished itself.

He let out a heavy sigh and placed his hands on the ground to stand up. He stopped a moment when he felt an intense pain in the palm of his right hand.

He turned it over and noticed it was bright red and stinging. The pain was excruciating and felt never ending.

Even as his mam held his hand under ice cold running water he continued to scream in pain. He was inconsolable.

His hand began to blister and his mam finally took him into the A&E.

“My da did it, my da did it,” he repeated to the doctor who applied silver nitrate to his burns, “He held my hand on the burner, you’ve got to believe me, nobody believes me,” he contorted his face into a cry and sobbed as he covered his face, concealing his eyes so the doctor couldn’t see that he wasn’t producing any tears.

Jim held his breath, hoping his eyes would water. He was so worked up that he managed to knock himself out.

The police were called; he spoke with a social worker, and was released to his concerned parents.

“What did you say to them?” Jim shouted in the car. He kicked the back of his da’s seat and screamed at the top of his lungs.

“James! Quit!” his mam shouted.

“I hate you!” he said in his best demonic voice. The words resonated in his chest and he continued to growl at his parents.

They took him to church, he was doused in holy water, and they prayed for him.

After the little ‘incident’ with the fire he started seeing doctors who gave him loads of happy pills.

“Sweety! The doctors said not to chew it!” his mother tried prying the pill from Jim’s mouth but he continued to break through the enteric coating, into the double dose of antipsychotics.

They stopped giving him extended release tablets and he couldn’t be any more grateful. It meant more pills throughout the day which meant more room for error. He took them from the moment he woke up, before each and every meal, and at bedtime before prayers. He liked it a lot. He was just so happy all the time.

He liked to sneak more. He started wetting the bed and they gave him antidepressants on top of it all. Sometimes he’d come up with his own tics, barking, twitching, hopping, just so they’d try something new.

He loved to chew capsules, they were his favourite. They turned to jelly in his mouth and they’d spewed their contents on to his tongue. He’d let his tongue hang out and would watch the little granules dissolve on his tongue. He had to keep from laughing as he watched himself in the mirror.

He hated chewable tablets though, unless they were effervescent and made him foam at the mouth like a mad dog. His mam would get so frightened when he’d try swallow the carbonated tablets whole. She really needed to stop turning her back to Jim. He was all sorts of trouble.

He found the more he rolled around on the carpet and drooled, the more his parents loved him, and the less time they had for making babies.

Then he hit puberty and started to change.

He didn’t like it at first, the hair, the pimples, his changing voice, but erections were fun. He’d always had them but never cared for them. Now they’d spring out of nowhere and were loads of fun.

Of course the side effects of many of the medications made him constantly horny and he’d spend most of his time rutting against his mattress.

“I need an outlet,” he told himself after a particularly long masturbation session. He was becoming desensitized to his left hand and there had to be an easier way to get off.

He tried hanging around bars but nobody would let him in and they were all frightened of the young boy that kept lurking outside.

Women in particular were very picky and refused to give him the time of day. He was fourteen, looking for a shag, they should have been all over him.

“What, am I too good for you?” he asked as two older women completely disregarded him as they left the bar.

“Go home little boy!” they shouted in unison.

“I’d love to snip their Achilles tendons,” he snarled. They obviously overheard him and walked a little faster to their parked car.

He debated following them home. He knew they didn’t live together and one would have to leave her friend’s house eventually. There was a good chance he could take her down with a blow to the back of the knee if she was still wearing those high heels.

He wouldn’t take long and by the time someone called the cops he’d be done and long gone.

Instead of bothering with the girls, he decided to go on Holiday in Dublin where he found the gay scene.

It was absolutely perfect for Jim. The men were loose and he was free. He had better luck patrolling hotels, staying close to where they’d be ending up for the night. That way he didn’t have to rely on transport.

He found an exceptionally seedy gay motel and lurked around the doorways, waiting for someone to pick him up.

He pretended to be drunk even though he’d never had a drop of liquor in his life. At first he met several men that were interested but no takers. He kept his sob story to a minimum, covered up his age, and tried to appear as normal as possible.

He kept his standards high, borderline unrealistic. He realized he was secretly protecting himself. He started having second doubts.

Just as he was about to pack his bags and head home an unreasonably gorgeous young man, fresh from a long-term relationship, came up to him with a stack of cash.

He was piss drunk and looking for love in all the right places. Jim gladly took his money and escorted him to his room.

The only problem was Jim didn’t know what to do with him when they got there. The man insisted he’d never done anything like this before.

“Yeah right,” Jim mumbled as he counted his money.

He licked and nipped at Jim’s neck and Jim shied away from him. He gave him a look.

“M’not your boyfriend,” Jim told him, making sure he knew he wasn’t looking for anything serious. The man looked at him sorrowfully and stroked his hair.

Jim rolled his eyes as he stripped off his sweats. Jim folded down the elastic band on his pants and just barely pulled himself out.

“Make me come,” he told the man.

Jim was expecting him to touch him or something.  He really didn’t know. He probably should have listened to that sex talk his parents were willing to give him.

The man leaned over and wrapped his mouth around the head of Jim’s cock. Jim made a shocked ‘o’ face. He’d never thought to stick it in a person’s mouth before.

He ran both hands through the man’s hair and laid back to enjoy his splendours.

A song came into his head and Jim started humming along, tapping out a beat on to the back of the man’s head. He became distanced from the situation for a moment or two, but then it started feeling really good.

“Mm,” Jim hummed, licking his lips, “That’s right, suck it.”

He held the man’s head in place and bucked his hips up. It felt even better. He started moaning and thrusting, trying to bring himself there. The man gagged around his dick. Jim smiled to himself, gave it one last thrust, and came down the back of his throat.

Jim was addicted but he quickly found most grown men weren’t willing to pay to suck his dick.

This was inexcusable.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled at one of his clients who was trying to play with his ass.

“You took my money you slut,” the man said through clenched teeth.

“I’ll tell the police, I’ll tell them everything if you don’t leave,” he threatened.

The man grabbed Jim by the face, squeezing his chin tightly. He spit in Jim’s face.

Jim smiled.

He’d never seen a man so frightened. He just loved the effect he had on grown men. He collected his money and left.

It wasn’t long before he found cocaine or rather, cocaine found him. Ten kilos worth.

Jim was elated. He’d never done anything illegal before. He was excitedly running his fingers over his lips, shaking in his seat, as this representative of some drug cartel told him about taking a Holiday in Venezuela.

“All expenses paid, all you have to do is take a little something back with you,” he explained.

“And customs has been paid off?” Jim asked with a grin. They showed him the bulletproof vest, filled with large packets of cocaine.

They placed it over his shoulders and he remembered how it felt like it weighed a tonne. They stitched up the shoulders and Jim felt astonished at how well it was concealed under his clothes.

“The flight leaves mid-afternoon, right when everyone takes off for lunch,” the man said with a crooked smile.

Jim mirrored him and was excited to get things underway.

He waved goodbye to his new found friends and took himself and the ten kilos of high quality Colombian cocaine across security, snacking on a large stick of beef jerky as he walked past a sniffer dog. He smiled and waved at the dog who stepped forward to smell him. His trainer quickly jerked back on his chain and scolded the dog.

Jim just smiled and walked through the airport. He approached the cafeteria and found a small girl waiting at a table.

“Where’s your mummy?” he asked.

The girl just gawked at him. She had in front of her two boarding passes. Jim never really fancied going to Venezuela, he thought a nice trip to Holland sounded much better.

“Trade me?” he asked the little girl. He pressed a finger to his lips and swapped his boarding pass for the little girl’s mother’s.

He walked off, in search of his gate. He found another flight, one gate over, leaving for jolly ol’ England.  He swapped out the stolen boarding pass with a man who had his back turned and his briefcase wide open.

Once the man approached the gate to board with the stolen boarding pass he was flagged down by security and in all the commotion, Jim was able to add his name to the list on the flight out to Heathrow.

Jim printed off his boarding pass and thanked himself for all the help.  He boarded first class and settled in. The flight attendant arrived with a glass of champagne and Jim lounged back in his seat, enjoying his new life.

London was a breath of fresh air for Jim. He was up half a million pounds and could finally afford for men to suck his dick.

He could have retired at age fifteen but he got greedy. He built his web and was living the life of luxury until Mycroft Holmes started sticking his nose in things.

Somehow her majesty was ‘threatened’ by Jim’s little operation, though Jim hardly saw why. Mycroft was always on his case, riding his ass, and it was getting annoying.

Finding Sherlock was a stroke of pure luck.

If only he’d been a good little boy, Sherlock would have been a perfect little pet. Jim could hardly blame Sherlock for his misfortune. DC Gregory Lestrade on the other hand, he was a good target for Jim’s anger.

_Once Lestrade is out of the way, Sherlock will be all mine._

Jim was interrupted from his thoughts when the guard announced he had a visitor.

“I just got here,” Jim scowled.

“He says it’s urgent.”

“Who the fuck does _he_ think he is? Tell him I’m busy,” Jim said, dismissing the guard.

“It’s Sherlock Holmes, sir.”


	30. Chapter 30

Admittedly Mycroft was bored with the way things were heading.

Sherlock was tucked away in a safe place, working towards something meaningful while in a long term relationship with a man that Mycroft could no longer bring himself to hate.

All the while Mycroft was completely and utterly alone.

He’d put on some weight, lost a considerable amount of it, gained it back again, and now his waist-line was stagnant. Much like his love life.

It had been ages since he broke it off with Gregson and that affair had only lasted a short while in the scheme of things.

He needed to move on but there really wasn’t anyone to move on to. Every time he resolved to live out the rest of his life in solitude the people around him started dating, getting married, having children, attending funerals. It was maddening.

_If Sherlock could find someone to remain in a committed relationship with for over two years, then certainly..._

Mycroft’s phone rang and he tapped his fingers on his desk in thought. He picked up the phone and leaned back in his chair.

 _“It’s your brother,”_ his latest PA said.

“Put him through,” Mycroft groaned as he rubbed his forehead.

_“No, your brother is-“_

“Good God, bring the car around,” he barked as he stood to grab his coat. He stepped outside and glowered at his PA, “Have you called the rehab facility?”

“No, sir,” she said, hurrying to catch up with him before he got into the lift.

“What am I paying you for? Get on the phone-“

“Sir it’s-“

“Don’t interrupt me I’m trying to think,” he said holding his hand up to shush her. He smashed the button for the main floor and they rode in silence while Mycroft tried his hardest to put his thoughts together. It had been so long since a drug slip up that he hardly remembered the protocol.

“Sir.”

“What?” Mycroft snipped.

“He’s at Belmarsh.”

Mycroft’s face went blank, his eyes went wide, and his heart sunk into his chest, “What on Earth is he doing there?”

_He’s at Oxford._

By then his composure was completely gone and he behaved much like a man his own age. He was in a panic.

“Tell me he’s not with...”

“I’m afraid so,” his PA said, producing the fax, “He checked into the high security unit for visiting hour at 14:30.”

“How did he even know he was there?” Mycroft griped as he hit the button faster. He pulled out his pocket watch and stared at the time, “He’s been there over an hour! Why wasn’t I informed sooner?”

“They can hold him if you’d like,” his PA offered, “Sir.”

“Nevermind,” he sighed, “I’ll need a copy of their conversation. I suppose I don’t need him knowing that I know.”

His PA gave him a confused look.

“Tell them to let Sherlock go. He’ll be no use to us if he’s irate. Just find out why he went to Belmarsh in the first place.”

His PA pulled out a newspaper and pointed to the headline.

**MURDER’S MESSAGE ON WALLS HAUNTS FAMILY ON DOLLIS HILL**

_GET OUT_

Mycroft recognized the house’s exterior immediately.

“Anthea, get me DI Hopkins on the phone.”

* * *

The sun was just starting to rise and the room was cast in a warm orange glowing light. Greg reached out and felt Sherlock’s warm body at the far reaches of the bed.

He scooted closer, propped up on his elbow, and watched Sherlock sleep.

_It’s sad to think this is my favourite part of the day._

He brushed back Sherlock’s hair, letting it run through his fingertips. He hardly ever let him do this to him while he was awake. He decided to press his luck that morning and wrap an arm around Sherlock and bring him into a cuddle.

Sherlock began to stir.

“Mm,” he groaned, “I’m asleep.”

He pulled off Greg’s arm and curled up into a ball.

“Someone’s grumpy,” Greg remarked, giving him a playful shove, “Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“No,” he moaned as he pulled a pillow over his head.

“Breakfast in bed?”

Sherlock gagged in response.

“See, this is why you’re better off at Oxford.”

Sherlock pulled the pillow off his head and scowled at Greg, “I don’t see your reasoning.”

“Now that we’re together you’re completely unromantic.”

“Whoever said I was romantic?” Sherlock scoffed as his upper lip twitched into a disgusted snarl.

“You used to sleep on top of me, now you build a pillow fort around your bum to keep me away,” he said, dismantling Sherlock’s butt barrier, “What’s up?”

“Nothing, I’m busy,” he said, smacking Greg away feebly.

Greg grabbed his hand and held it firmly, “Busy with what?”

“Stuff!” Sherlock shouted as he wrenched his hand from Greg’s grip and rolled over.

“We never talk anymore.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock replied, “You never shut up.”

“I’m just trying to work out what’s going on in that funny head of yours, sorry for trying.”

“Apology not accepted,” Sherlock huffed, “And I want my eggs scrambled,” he added as Greg moved to get out of bed.

“Oh, scramble em yourself,” Greg said, leaving in a hurry. He didn’t bother putting on socks as he slid on his shoes and grabbed his coat off the hook.

He decided he’d have breakfast out that morning. It was about time someone cooked for him. Even if it was fat Tony with the limp and harelip.

He walked into the diner and stayed away from the booth that he and Sherlock had once shared the first night they met.

He was glad to see the waitress had changed but the menu had stayed relatively the same. He ordered a coffee, eggs, toast, bacon, and potatoes, and at the last minute added pancakes to top it off.

Sherlock had a way of making him angry and hungry at the same time.

The door’s bell chimed and Greg turned to see Sherlock half dressed with a dressing gown hanging over his shoulders. His hair was a mess and he looked hung-over.

He took a seat across from Greg and glared at him.

“You left,” he stated.

“Yeah,” Greg said, trying to ignore him by lifting up a day old newspaper.

Sherlock placed a hand on the paper and pulled it down, “You never leave.”

“I do all the time, you just don’t notice,” he said, raising the paper once more.

“You’re angry.”

“No shit.”

“Did you order me anything?”

“Pancakes.”

“I wanted eggs,” he said with a whine. Sherlock folded his arms and placed his head down. Greg folded up the newspaper and reached out to pat Sherlock on the head.

“There, there, I got you eggs as well.”

Sherlock reached out his legs under the table and put Greg’s leg in an ankle lock, giving him a tight squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to the side, refusing to look Greg in the eye.

“For what?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” Sherlock sighed, “Everything?”

“Well, it’s a start.”

Sherlock sat up and started rubbing his forehead, “I’m no closer to solving Raz’s murder than I was three days ago.”

“You just started.”

“I’m getting nowhere,” Sherlock complained, “And fast.”

The food arrived and Sherlock started digging in; drowning his sorrows in pancake syrup.

“This really has you worked up, doesn’t it?” Greg asked.

“I want to solve it.”

“For me?”

“For myself!” he shouted, “It’s driving me mad.”

“Alright, calm down. Public voice, remember?”

“This is my public voice!” he shouted through a mouth full of pancake. He swallowed hard and added, “Besides, what do you care?”

“If you want to be respected as an amateur detective-“

“Consulting detective,” he corrected.

“Well then you’d best get your shit together.”

Sherlock tuned him out and ate like a normal human being. He wasn’t wearing any shoes or a t-shirt but management hardly minded at all. They were likely used to it, running twenty-four hours a day.

Greg stared into his empty cup of coffee.

“How is Mr Psychopath?”

“Good, he’s being transferred.”

“Again?” Greg asked in disbelief.

“To a mental hospital! Isn’t that great?” Sherlock scowled as he gritted his teeth.

“How long do you think they’ll hold him?”

“Five years, or so he says. But he’s planning on getting out in only a month or two so it doesn’t really matter.”

“How’s plan on doing that?” Greg asked with a shocked expression.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Sherlock stared off into nothingness, “Something tells me he has connections. There’s a guard at Belmarsh, calls him ‘sir’, no doubt he has friends in low places. He’ll find a way to turn his trip to the insane asylum into a lawsuit. Perhaps they’ll abuse him, mistreat him. He’ll gather evidence to have himself released.”

“What if he just gets transferred again?”

“He’ll start from ground zero. Work up another story. Cause a public outcry,” Sherlock let out a sigh and looked at Greg, “The way I see it, the more lies he tells and the more stories he spins, the more believable he’ll be, until the point the public doubts why they locked him up in the first place.”

“You don’t think he killed Raz after all,” Greg stated and Sherlock looked away once more, “I can see why you’re upset.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” he glowered.

“You’ve reached a dead end. Take a break, clear your mind.”

“I won’t rest until the case is solved!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the table, “The game is on!”

Sherlock rose from his seat and left dramatically. His dressing gown swooped underneath him and the bell chimed cheerily as he left with a flourish.

“Bit of an odd one,” the waitress remarked.

“You should try dating him.”


	31. Chapter 31

They escorted Jim out in a blindfold and safety ear muffs. Jim was beaming with pride, knowing he was making a show. The room had to be cleared of prisoners even though there was seating for at least twelve families. There was an armed guard positioned at the door with an assault rifle at the ready.

The guards sat Jim down across the table from Sherlock and removed the blindfold and earmuffs.

“What did you do?” Sherlock snorted.

“Oh, you know. Strangled a man,” he shrugged, “They get so touchy about attempted murder around here. You’d swear I actually killed the man, the way they’ve been carrying on.”

Jim grinned and looked Sherlock over, stripping him with his eyes.

“Conjugal visit?” he ventured.

Sherlock just chuckled in response. The man was completely delusional; prison had done a number on him. Though he doubted Jim would be apt to believe it.

Jim’s eyes were sunken in with dark circles underneath and his skin had a pale glow under the fluorescent lights. Yet his face was meticulously shaven and his hair was trim and tidy.

“I missed you,” Jim said in a strange voice as he looked away, staring at a spot on the wall halfway across the room, “I miss _us.”_

“There was never an _us_ ,” Sherlock was quick to correct.

“We had such good times, didn’t we, Sherly?”

Sherlock kept his face void of expression, not wanting to give Jim the satisfaction. He felt a tingling sensation run up his spine. The room was frigid and Jim’s ice cold stare only added to it.

“I tell _everyone_ about you.”

Sherlock slammed the newspaper down and Jim jolted.

“Explain this.”

Sherlock searched Jim’s face as he read the headline.

“I’m in prison, Sherlock,” he pointed out, “Do you really believe-“

“Where’s Sebastian?”

He shrugged, “I’m not his keeper.”

“Where is he?” Sherlock asked once more. “Tell me,” he demanded.

Sherlock stood, reached over the table, and held Jim by the collar of his shirt. The guard shifted slightly. His hand rested upon his weapon. Jim just smiled at Sherlock.

Sherlock let go.

“So, twelve more years?” Sherlock asked, straightening his front as he sat back down.

“Mm, more like five, but I plan on leaving sooner,” Jim waited for a response. He looked disappointed when Sherlock didn’t answer. “You don’t return my calls.”

“I have a new number,” Sherlock said, staring at the armed guard.

“New address as well?”

“Baker Street, but you already knew that.”

“Of course,” Jim smiled. His eyes kept scanning up and down Sherlock’s body, making Sherlock incredibly uncomfortable. “I want to touch you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. He looked to the guard and licked his lips in thought. He returned his attention to Jim, giving him a quick look over to work out his intentions.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, standing to straighten the front of his suit once more. It was one of Jim’s, one of many he refused to part with. He could never afford another one like it on his own salary, he reasoned. “Guard, remove his handcuffs.”

The guard walked forward with the key and started removing Jim’s restraints. He stood close by and watched as Jim walked around the table. Jim reached out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slim figure, giving him a firm embrace.

Sherlock returned the hug and as they parted, he covertly slid his fingers into Jim’s balled fist. Jim gave his fingers a tight squeeze before letting the slip of paper go.

Sherlock was about to back away when Jim grabbed him roughly, pulled him down to his level, gave him two pecks on the side of his lips, opened his mouth to snog him forcefully, and then bit his bottom lip, before he let go suddenly.

“That’s enough, sir,” the guard said as slapped the cuffs back on to Jim’s wrists.

Jim gave him a wink as he was ushered back to his cell.

Sherlock winced as he touched the open sore on his lips and revealed a spot of blood on his fingertips. He stashed the piece of paper into his pocket for later and left before his brother could arrive.

In the cab he unfolded the piece of paper which simply read, “CAM” with a smiley face written next to it.

Sherlock blew a puff of air out of his nose.

_A whole afternoon wasted. Smile! You’re on camera._

Sherlock rolled up the paper into a tiny cylinder and stared at the back of the cabbie’s head for the remainder of the ride.

When he arrived at Baker Street he was fuming. He remained on edge for days.

After he binged on pancakes, he didn’t eat for days. He simply refused to divert any of his blood flow to lesser functions. This also meant he had to abstain from sex. He batted away Lestrade anytime he came near.

Lestrade was starting to take it personally, but Sherlock had other things on his mind.

“It’s so obvious he did it, it looks as if he framed himself,” Sherlock remarked, staring at the wall that he’d decorated with photographs from the scene of the crime.

“He couldn’t have done it Sherlock, he was under arrest,” Lestrade said with an exaggerated groan as he ran his hands through his hair, “Sit down, you’re mucking up the couch.”

“Left handed, five eight, it’s him, it has to be,” Sherlock insisted.

“Could we go one day without you talking about this stupid case?”

Sherlock snapped his attention towards Lestrade who was sitting on the sofa that he happened to be standing on, “If you don’t like it, _leave_ ,” Sherlock hissed. “You’re apparently good at it.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

“I suppose I’ll just go upstairs and watch the tapes alone,” Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock hopped down off the couch, “Well, if you insist.”

Not being one to pass up on a good murder, Sherlock agreed to watch some video footage of the interrogation from an open investigation that Lestrade was working on.

Sherlock took one look at the woman and knew she was lying.

“Her story is far too detailed,” he informed Lestrade.

“Yeah I know but the man had no signs of struggle, only one stab wound, straight to the heart. It looks like a suicide to me.”

“Look at the way she acts out the motion though. She grabs the knife with her right hand and crosses over her body to stab herself in the heart with one swift motion, but the knife went in at a forty degree angle. It’s physically impossible! In order to stab himself with one hand he would have to hold the knife at an awkward angle,” Sherlock demonstrated by grabbing a pen and stabbing himself repeatedly in the chest. “He wouldn’t be able to achieve the force required to make a cut that deep with one downward stroke.”

Sherlock stood and pulled Lestrade up to stand with him, “They’re having a row, fuelled by cocaine and alcohol. The woman threatens to leave, the man shouts at her. Things become even more heated as he starts calling her a bitch and a whore, like he’s done on several occasions before, only this time she’s had enough. She grabs the closet weapon, a carving knife, places the palm of her left hand on his right breast to steady herself, and drives it into the man’s heart with one blow,” Sherlock placed a hand on Lestrade’s chest and swung at him with the pen. Lestrade caught his hand just before the pen struck him in the chest. “Mortally wounded, the man stumbles forward, pulling the knife from the wound in his chest, a detail the woman neglected to mention,” Lestrade acted accordingly and stumbled forward, pulling the pen away from his chest. “That’s why the knife was in the man’s hand, that’s why the girlfriend seemed distanced from the whole situation, and that’s why she asked for the police instead of an ambulance when she called 999.”

“Brilliant,” Lestrade claimed.

“Oh, well... you know,” Sherlock shrugged. Lestrade raised to his feet and gave Sherlock a peck on the lips.

“Wanna watch another?” Lestrade offered.

“Oh God yes.”

* * *

Greg watched Sherlock as Sherlock watched the next tape. He really felt guilty using unsolved murders to get into Sherlock’s pants, but there seemed to be no other way. Sherlock was so enthralled with the case he didn’t even notice Greg was gawking at him.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock scoffed suddenly and Greg spooked.

“What is?”

“Six bullet wounds to the chest.”

“How’s that sentiment?” Greg asked, confused.

“The more shots fired the higher the likelihood is that the murderer was somehow emotionally connected to the victim. Combined with the fact that there was no evidence of a break-in and nothing was stolen suggests it was someone close to the man.”

“We interviewed the last three people he called that night.”

“No, no. You’re going about it all wrong. Find out if he has any family, a wife, children-“

“He does have a fifteen year old son.”

“Where was he the night of the murder?”

“He was out smoking with his friend, he came home and found his father dead, had been for a few hours.”

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed. He brought his hands to rest under his chin. “Have you spoken with the boy’s friend?”

“I have the tape right here,” Greg said, pulling the video from the stack. “Cameron Alan Milverton, that’s the boy’s friend’s name, he had the exact same story as the son, almost word for word.”

“Cameron… Alan… Milverton…” Sherlock repeated.

“Yeah,” Greg said as he ejected the last tape.

 _“C.A.M,”_ Sherlock whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing, run the tape,” Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively.

They watched as both boys gave their stories.

_“We was on Fleet street when it happened, just cruising. Stopped at Tesco. Had a smoke, went to Cam’s, saw a film. Drove home round two, walked in, saw me dad on the floor, thought he’d fallen, only there was a lot more blood. Thought he’d been shot or stabbed or summat. That’s when I called the ambulance.”_

_“We’d snuck out, were cruising on Fleet street. Went to Tesco. Smoked before coming back to mine. Saw a film. Drove Mat home round two.”_

“They rehearsed their story. That’s why it’s lacking in detail,” Greg said after a long deliberation. “So the son shot his dad in the chest six times, left with his mate, drove around for a bit, came home, called for an ambulance,” Greg said as he looked over the evidence once more. “Do you think Milverton was an accomplice then? Sherlock?” Greg reached over and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder. “Sherlock?” he asked, softly shaking him out of his daydream.

“Yes, sure,” Sherlock said, shaking his head clear.

Greg took over the investigation. The next day he tested the son’s hands for gun powder residue. He returned minutes later to question the boy.

“Would there be any reason why there was gun powder on your hands?” Greg asked.

“Was there?” the boy asked nervously.

“I’m just asking if there’s any reason why there would be gun powder on your hands.”

“Cam’s got this cabin in the woods, we was firing off his dad’s rifles last Saturday,” the boy said, nervously looking around the room.

“I doubt the test would pick up on residue from last Saturday.”

“Would fireworks?” the boy asked, shaking in his seat. “We… we had some last Monday, no, Tuesday. Wait,” the boy said, holding up his hands. “I want to get this right.”

Greg’s eyes darted to the one-way mirror and he gave a slight nod. They had him.

Greg returned home with a new found bounce in his step, only to find Sherlock was much in the same mood as before.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, sulking, his arms and legs flaccid, his mouth half open. He stared blankly at the ceiling. Even his mind palace couldn’t bring him any comfort. This was serious.

“Let’s go out, take your mind off things,” Greg said softly. Sherlock remained motionless but blinked and swallowed in acknowledgement. “Murder?” Greg proposed. “A nice crime scene? I know where a few are. Hell I’d make one if it’d make you feel better.”

“Cam,” Sherlock uttered in a croaky voice.

“He’s in jail awaiting trial because of you. They found the murder weapon along with some discarded clothing at his parent’s cabin.”

“C.A.M,” Sherlock whispered as he closed his eyes.

“You seriously need a new hobby,” Greg sighed. “Ever thought of taking up knitting?”

Sherlock started traversing his mind palace, opening doors, turning on lights, flipping through files.

“Crochet perhaps,” Greg said as he sat down at Sherlock’s feet. “This amount of stress just isn’t healthy,” he said as he ran a hand up Sherlock’s shin. “I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall half the time.” Greg leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, “Haven’t even had sex in... God... weeks?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, “That’s it.”

“Sex?”

“Mycroft!”

“Erm...”

Sherlock scrambled to get off the sofa.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Greg asked sadly.

“Don’t you ever listen?” Sherlock snipped.

“You didn’t say anything!”

“That’s because you weren’t listening,” Sherlock elaborated.

“I was so,” Greg said as he got up off the sofa and went for his coat.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you.”

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“Bloody well does. If it concerns you, it concerns me.”

“Fine, but you’re buying dinner.”

“What?” Greg asked, giving him a strange look.

“Might as well get a date out of this while we’re doing all this running around. Get you off my back.”

“Gee, ta. Love you too.”


End file.
